Curse of Darkness - Olympic Games

[Greenfield]

The trumpets flared as Denius Aurelius Caesar's party entered Athens. Two guards lead the way, cudgels in hand to warn off trouble. Behind them came the heralds, who would step aside at every gate and arch and proclaim the presence of Caesar, as the trumpets would flare again. Behind them came two slaves who scattered silver pennies to the crowd, that they would remember and adore their new Emperor.

Next came the Emperor, riding an ornate sedan chair born by dark skinned slaves, their oiled muscles flexing in the afternoon, well, lack of sunlight. Guards flanked right left, front and rear. Behind them came the house slaves and the baggage train. And someplace within this group of tag-alongs walked Marcus, barely more than an acolyte of Jupiter, yet selected for this most important mission.

Ahead he saw Claudius, the Centurian and captain of the guard, who drew back his arm to deliver a cuff to some street urchin who had gotten too close. The urchin was game, however, and backpedaled to stay just out of reach, smiling and talking as fast as his lips could form the words.

"Good Master, do you need a guide?", the boy asked. "I know every street in the city, every alley, every market and merchant. Do you need quarters? There are none to be had, unless you know who to ask, and I know everyone. Does your master wish for entertainment? Women to ease his strains and pains. Perhaps you seek a wife, master? A soldier needs someone to keep his bed warm and waiting for him...", the lad continued, until the Centurion took a long step forward, bringing him nose to nose with the babbling boy. A snarl, a swift blow, and the boy tumbled to the side, curling into near fetal position as the air was driven from his lungs. Probably couldn't even get enough breath to scream.

Marcus sighed. The great Games brought a flood of people to the great city, and with that came a flood of opportunity for the local street trade.

A few moments later though, to his surprise, he saw the same boy approach the Centurian again, fear on his face as he held out an object. An object that bore a well embroidered seal.

"Master, did you drop this?", he asked in a hesitant voice.

One hand grasped the boy's wrist as the other flew to an empty spot on his belt. "My purse! You little thief, I'll take your hand myself for this!" Then the hardened expression softened as he felt the weight of the purse. "What the...", he asked, as he opened the pouch and peered inside. "It's all here?"

"I told you, Master, that you dropped it. I took nothing!", the boy cried.

"An honest man?", the Centurion asked again, voice incredulous. "I don't believe it!", he finally declared, rough-handing the boy to the ground with practiced ease. "Begone, while those fingers are still yours."

And again, the boy curled up in the road, this time to protect himself from the procession that nearly trampled him as it passed.

After the procession was passed, a keen eye might have seen the smile on the lad's face, as he tucked several items away within his robes. The Centurion's purse had been poor pickings, but returning it had allowed him to be close to many others as they passed
******
The rigging groaned in time with the sway of the ship as they drew close to port. Sylus was spending his time at the rail, as far from the Imperial company as possible. He had boarded along a shore that, in another world might have been called the Riviera, and hoped for a quiet passage. Such was not to be his fate, however, as the ship had been all but taken over by another passenger. Markus Octavius Caesar, he called himself, though the last appellation was a recent addition. Sylus knew the man by reputation, and that was as close as he cared to be. He had been appointed General and Chancellor of the Western Marches, a fancy way of saying that Gaul was his. He had once been known as a good governor, hard but fair, and adept at keeping the roads and cities safe. Over the last years, however, bandits had begun to plague the roads again, and the Chancellor ne Emperor had become more hard than fair. His troops were seldom seen, and when you did see them you ran.

The huntsman wasn't looking forward to his time in packed streets of Athens, but at least it would get him away from the Roman.
***
General Calvinus grimaced as they approached the city. The Pax Olympicus had forced him to leave most of his escort behind, at Marathon. A full Legion he had brought, a third part of his forces, to assure him the respect he deserved. After all, he was to be the new Emperor of Rome.

Accompanying him was a minor son of a minor house in the northern ends of his command. The lad claimed the title of "Prince", though his lofty station wasn't nearly as lofty as he seemed to think it was. Any true Citizen of Rome was better than an outlander of any rank, and this one's title was as less solid than a reed in the wind. Still, the boy's father had proven useful in guarding the passes, and keeping at least some of the barbarian hordes at bay. And he was educated enough to give interesting conversation.
***
The banners of Rome fluttered in the breeze as the great Kergen entered the city. They were his by conquest, and if their presence didn't prove his right to be a conqueror, none dared say such words in his presence. He glared down at the puny Humans that skittered away from him, like bugs beneath a tent fur that is suddenly folded back. He jerked on the chain that collared his latest slave, making the lad choke and stagger for a moment.

This drew the attention of the city guard, who were already looking for an excuse to refuse the Orc contingent admittance to the city.

"You can't abuse a slave like that!", one of them cautioned. "He's still a person."

"Ha!", bellowed the great Mountain Orc. He stood nearly eight feet tall, and could easily have swept these soft pink things aside. Who were they to tell him who was a person and who wasn't. They were hardly "persons" themselves, as far as he was concerned.

But they were armed, and there were more gathering, and he had had to leave his followers outside the city. He lifted the struggling slave by the collar, glared at him with his good eye and growled, "If you run, little goat, I will run faster, and then you will never run again!" Then he opened his hand, letting the boy fall to the ground.

The slave staggered, trying to keep his feet as he fell, knowing that his captors would laughingly kick him where he lay. He loosed the chain carefully from his bruised throat, and packed it away. If he'd dropped it in the road it would have given the Orcs reason to beat him. Such was the life of a slave.

The city guards weren't through though. "While in Athens you will treat this, this, person as the law of the city requires." He'd used the term "person" because he was unsure what else to call the boy. His upper body was naked, and showed every bruise and scrape the Orcs had chosen to administer. His lower body was, well, he wasn't exactly naked, even though he wore nothing more than a belt. He was covered in dark fur starting somewhere around his naval, flowing downward and covering some oddly crooked legs that ended in cloven hooves. His face was narrow and bony, with a thin beard depending from his narrow chin, and two long curling horns sweeping from his forehead back across the top of his head. His ears were long and pointed, and his eyes, though haunted by fear, were quick and intelligent.

Still, they had to warn the lad. "Slaves who flee their masters are to be hunted by the guard, and they'll return you to your master. Don't mistake our words for anything more than what they are."

"Once we leave the city, little goat, you live by tribal law.", the Kergen growled. "So you write songs of my victory here over the pinks, songs of my glory and triumph that the tribe will sing for ages. Do that, and you might live a little longer."

 

[Greenfield]

***
Marcus groaned silently in sympathy for the poor house slave, and the decision he had to make.

"These estates were reserved for the Imperial party!", argued the Centurion, the threat in his voice obvious.

"Which is why you should step aside and allow Emperor Calvinus to claim them", countered the herald of the second "Caesar".

"General Calvinus will be lucky to retain his head, much less his command, if this farce doesn't stop at once!", replied the Centurion.

The factor for the third Caesar held his tongue. Years in the field had taught him to allow the adversary to make all the mistakes he wanted to, and these two were making enough for an army. The home belonged to a prominent wine merchant who had trade through much of the Empire. He and his family had vacated the city for a time, and would return from their country estates after the Games had finished. He had been honored to have the Emperor himself staying there, but the Emperor who had made the arrangement was now dead.

A man stood to the side, his clothes marking him as a worker, or perhaps a slave, and the string of freshly killed rabbits on his back spoke of his trade more clearly than any set of clothes or guild marks might have. He was selling meat of the field to any who would buy. As the two verbal champions thundered at one another, he approached the conflagration.

"If I may", he began, timing his insertion for a moment when both had stopped to take a breath, "I know of a fine site for either party, with fresh water, and away from the flies of the city."

The Centurion turned his wrath on the man with silent menace. The very idea that the master of Rome would sleep in such a place was an insult, and to accept was to surrender the field to a pretender. The huntsman bowed and backed away without another word. He would have left, but Emperor Marcus gave a slight gesture, and a slave intercepted the man quietly. The western General knew to keep his options open.

Meanwhile the two belligerents were back at their shouting match, with the poor house slave, holder of the keys, slowly being crushed between them.

Then Denius solved the problem as only a Senator can. He spoke, and his voice hushed all others.

"I am Denius, Seneshal of the city of Rome itself, and commander of the Empire. These other two are from the outlands, and neither has so much as set foot in my city in two years. I am Emperor, and these quarters were reserved for me!"

His argument was punctuated by the Centurion who seized the house slave's hand, placed a purse of gold in it, and closed the man's fingers on it with crushing force. "You have accepted Caesar's gold. The matter is settled!"

The slave was more than happy to have a way to choose, and quickly directed the baggage carriers of Denius into the building.

General/Emperor Marcus had spent years in the field, and was no stranger to tent. He and his group followed the huntsman, leaving Calvinus fuming in impotent fury. He would have struck the slave dead, but for the presence of the city guards, who had formed escorts for all three "Imperial" parties. The peace of the city was to be enforced, even upon the Emperor himself if need be.

Finally, he turned to the Captain of his guard. "Clear out some appropriate quarters for us.", and the man left, his mission clear.

Across the road, at a small wine vendor with some benches outside, sat the travelers from the corners of the Empire. This was their arranged meeting place, and they waited there to see who and how many would show up.

Nedel was one of the first to arrive, for his father had arranged quarters for him in this better part of the city. Appelenea was next, for she had been in town for a few days so far. Seeburn would have arrived earlier, but he had never been in so large a town, and the maze of streets had confused him. Cassius and Sylus arrived together, for they had met at the port and ended up camping fairly near each other in the fields. The Cleric, Markus, was the last, even though his quarters were right across the street, for it took time to separate himself from his traveling party.

"I tell you, it's sheer robbery.", Sylus complained. "7 Gold Dinar for a piece of rocky ground scarcely larger than a grave, and then 2 silver pennies a day on top of that. I think they placed me in a footpath."

"Be happy you got that. There isn't a blade of grass left in that field. I'm actually sleeping in a tree", Casius replied. "And I had to pay 3 Dinar for that."

"At least you're not near the south end.", commented Seeburn. "It's become the common sewer for the whole field, and the games don't even start until tomorrow. Think of the stench after two weeks of this."

When Markus joined them and showed them his clay seal, though, they began to talk in earnest. "So, why are we here again?"

"My master spoke of the unnatural darkness, and called it a curse. It seems to cover the whole world.", Markus began. 'I fear that the gods are at war with their ancient enemies, the Titans."

"Nay", inserted the slender blond lady, "'tis the Fimbulwinter, the beginning of Ragnarok."

"No matter what we call it, what do they expect us to do about it?", questioned Nedel. He had dropped the claim of "prince", now that he didn't need to impress anyone.

"I guess we look for clues as to the source. We have travelers from throughout the known world here. If there is the shadow of a rumor of a hint of the truth, someone will have brought it with them."

"That's fine for you lot", Cassius said bitterly. "You want to save the world, which for you means saving Rome. I say, let the empire's corpse rot in peace. It's done more harm than good."

"I have no love for the Imperial Governor, nor his two-legged hounds", said Sylus to his friend, "but Rome was order. What comes now is anarchy, Chaos, and the madness that turns brother against brother. I doubt that the six of us can change the course of that madness, but we owe it to our parents, our masters and our mentors to try."

"My Father spoke of a great conspiracy, of agents of Chaos seeking to split the Empire.", Seeburn said. "To me, that sounds like that great Orc we saw. We should keep an eye on him, and make sure he fails."

"I'm not sure.", Markus countered. "He's big and noisy and obvious. But if the three Caesars continue as they are, there will be a civil war, and all hope of salvaging the Empire will be gone. There, I think, is the real danger."

The talk continued through the strange twilight and into the starless night. Some things were settled, but many were not.
***
"Blessings of Baccus, friend, only 2 Dinar", came the cheerful voice, all too early the next morning. Sylus clutched his throbbing head, asking himself why it is that all adventures seem to begin with a night of drinking. He rolled out from beneath the flap of canvas that passed for a tent, ready to kill the annoying vendor, if the ground would just stop moving.

"Blessing of Baccus, friend?", asked the odd goat-like lad that had yesterday been seen dancing to the Orc's amusement. "Quiets the mind, settles the stomach and eases the curse of the vine."

The Half-Elf clutched the offered goblet and drained it with a single gulp. The juice within foamed as it met the paste that coated his tongue, and washed down his throat, taking his headache with it. In moments he felt a wonderful nothing in his belly, and the urge to purge vanished.

To his amazement, he found himself handing the fellow two Dinar. "That was wonderful.", he declared. "Say, didn't I see you being dragged about by that Kergen fellow, yesterday?"

"Oh yes, but the city laws allow slaves to move more freely. Kergen is out afield for today's race, and most of the Vandals have gone to cheer him on. I'm free to ply my trade. Would you like some protection from the flies? I have that as well." Seeing the man shake his head, the goat-man smiled and began to hawk his wares again. "Blessings of Baccus to cool the fevered brow!"

Sylus found himself walking along as the boy passed out his cooling remedy. "How did you come to be with the Vandals?", he asked.

"Some from my village were on their way to the Games when we were caught. That's how Kergen got his Olympic Seal, to allow him to enter the games. Some of my friends fled and escaped, some fought and died. Alas, I managed to do neither. He kept me alive out of curiosity, I think. He'd never seen a Half Satyr before, and thought I might be some sort of Devil. He didn't even recognize my powders and potions as valuable, so I was able to salvage them from our camp. He did claim my late master's Alchemy gear, but he allows me to use it, since he discovered that my sleep wine can help him rest."

"He has trouble sleeping?"

"Only at night. His people normally sleep during the day, but the darkness has upset his sense of time, and besides, when he's in the human city he needs to be awake when the humans are."

"Wait. He took you on your way here?", the Half-Elf asked. "That's not legal. The peace of the Olympics!"

"I said the same thing.", confided the Bard. He turned and raised his left arm to reveal a long purple bruise. "This was his reply. I didn't argue any more."

"What's your name, friend. I can't go around calling you 'Goat boy'."

"Pendaclese", the Fey replied, looking slightly embarrassed.

"You mean like...?", the Ranger asked in shock, making a gesture with a dangling finger.

"Yeah.", the Half-Satyr agreed, still looking uncomfortable. "My father's idea. I think he wanted me to continue a family tradition."

"And I thought I had the 'woe of two worlds' growing up.", gasped Sylus, trying not to laugh. "You must have had it bad."

"Not that bad, really. I'm Fey on both sides, which helped. The boys used to tease me about it, until I got my growth."

The silence that followed was painful, and nothing more was said on the subject.
***
At noon the trumpets blared, and the festivities officially began. The city and the fields around them seethed with revelers, the buzz of their voices almost drowning out the drone of the flies.

And in the field at far Marathon, 26 miles away, a crowd of runners stood waiting. The judges peered upwards, trying to locate the sun, to see if it had reached its zenith. Then, with a shout, the runners were off.

The towering Orc thundered to an early lead, laughing as he left the puny pink-skins in his dust. But once he had run for a few minutes, he had to slow, and the more steady paced humans began to close the gap. The veterans chanted as they ran, jogging for a 100 count, then walking the same, in the style of the Roman Legions. It worked well. By the end of the first hour, the smaller humanoids had closed the gap. Kergen began to feel the strain, and would burst into short sprints to regain the lead, only to lose it again as the more experienced men worked their way past.

Several of the men apparently had friends waiting along the route with water or wine, which seemed to refresh them.

Some runners chose to follow the road, while others set out overland. Kergen followed them over hills and into briar and brush. The Great Orc smashed and crashed his way through impeding undergrowth, while some of the slighter men seemed to simply slip through unimpeded.
***
It was well into the third hour when the lead runners came into sight of the city, the lead position being held by Caligulus, champion of Emperor Marcus. He had been a soldier, and a messenger in the field, and knew how to run the distance. The bit of alchemy in his 'water' hadn't hurt either. Of course, he wasn't the only one who used such tricks. It was still a race.

The cheering crowd thundered their approval as the men passed through the city gates, their naked bodies shining with sweat, their feet pounding the stones like the beat of a drum.

"Go Master Go!", cried an unexpected voice. Pendaclese and the Orc contingent were there screaming their lungs out for their champion. The Bard's enthusiasm almost got some of the crowd to join in.

His spirit fired by loyalty of his men, he drew on his final reserves, the rage that lived in every Barbarian's heart, and he began to sprint. He closed with his opponents, his blood pounding in his ears as his feet pounded the cobblestone streets.

As he passed each pinkie, his heart swelled with pride. Some runners began to sprint as well, while others simply looked on as he passed, having no strength left to sprint with. He was closing on the leader, and could see the finish line ahead. In his mind, he could hear the horns shouting his triumph.

Then, his vision began to dim and his pace faltered as his rage ran out. He staggered, trying to push on, and fell. The humans stampeded past him, and the trumpets flared once more, for someone else.

He was going to kill someone, he swore. As soon as he could stand up.
[FONT=&quot]***
"Welcome to the Light, Prince Nedel", intoned the priest, bowing in welcome. "What do you seek?"

Nedel knew that the "prince" title wasn't really his, but Caesar had accepted the overstatement, and nobody here knew any better. And it did seem to open doors for him.

In this case it had been the doors to the Temple of Apollo, or at least it had let him bypass the line of petitioners, which was a good thing. The people were seeking hope, a commodity in very short supply.

"I seek enlightenment, brother.", Nedel answered, as tradition demanded. "I see dark days for the Empire, and for the world. Please tell me that the Oracles of the Sun see more?"

"I fear I cannot.", the priest replied in a rare admission. The common folk might be satisfied with bland generalities and platitudes, but even in the land of Democracy, rank had its privileges. One of them was the truth.

"The oracles of Apollo see the world as clearly as the sun god himself", the priest continued, "but the shadow on our world obscures his visions of us as surely as it obstructs our vision of him. "

"Well, what I seek isn't the wisdom of the whole world, just the happenings in this city.", the young noble said in a reassuring tone. "Since the sun god is busy, perhaps the wisdom of the priesthood will suffice. Who in the city profits from the darkness? Who might desire an eternal night?"

"The priests of Nix, whose cloak is the night itself, are as mystified as we are. I've asked.", the priest answered frankly. Then he dropped all semblance of ritual or formality. "The barbarian tribes have always hated the sunlight, so this works to their advantage, but I don't see how they could have arranged it. And Nix might be Apollo's rival, but they aren't enemies. As for what's happening in the city? You might ask at Nix' temple, but for the real stuff go to Aphrodite's Temple. You'd be amazed what men will talk about while, um, worshiping there. Or so I've heard it said."

Nedel nodded, then finished the ritual of enlightnment, leaving a circle of gold on the pedestal as he made his way out. The gods really were silent these days, which was bad news indeed.

[/FONT]

 

[Greenfield]

***
Marcus saw the turmoil from across the square, and knew his quarry would be nearby. And sure enough, there he was. The wiry street urchin he had seen when they entered town was standing to the side smirking as the town guard broke up the fight.

"Friend, you look like you could use a meal", he offered, as a Jovian priest might to a lost soul.

The boy caught the cue, and nodded to one side. The priest followed him to a small pastry shop. Confections were secured, and wine to wash them down. Then discussion began in earnest.

"You said that you know everyone in town.", the priest began. "But I'm more interested in 'what' than 'who'."

"Ah, I know a lot of 'what', and what I don't know I can find out.", the boy replied cockily, consuming his treat with that appetite that only teenagers seem to have. "Who do you want the dirt on? I know which officials can be bought, which ones have been bought, and what the going rate is. I can tell you who to bet on in the games, and I know who will actually honor the bets in the end. What would you like to know?"

"I need to know about the three Emperors, and whatever the Kergen is up to.", Markus said, getting straight to the point. "I need to know every rumor, and I can't be in enough places to hear them all myself."

"Ah, all the rumors? Or just the true ones?", the boy laughed, licking the last of the honey from his fingers.

"Just the true ones. I need facts."

"That does make it easier. I can tell you that Denius has an arrangement with a few of the Games officials. I might learn that Calvinus has his contingent spread through a number of small chambers in at least three buildings. I might even be able to learn which tree overlooks his window, close enough for access as he sleeps. If you care to learn such things, of course."

Markus sat in thoughtful silence for a moment. To even know how to assassinate a General, or an Emperor, was dangerous. But so tempting...

"Let's make an arrangement.", he said, shaking off the darker thoughts. "We'll meet each day and you share what you've learned."

"And you'll pay me a Dinar each meeting, and more if I find anything really good.", continued the boy, who had not forgotten that he wasn't a charity.

"Done. Now, tell me about tomorrow's games..."
***
"You left your things heaped in the market square.", the Proctor was explaining, for the fifth time.

"This was our camp!', screamed Karanga, second to the Kergen.

"It's not a camp site. It's the market square.", the Proctor repeated. "You arrived so late yesterday that we let you rest, but you can't stay there." He had seen them set up the previous night, and made the tactical decision not to argue with the Barbarian troop. Now, with a dozen of the city guard at his back, the situation was different.

"Then where do we go?", demanded the Orc. "There are no campsites left."

"I know of one.", spoke a voice from the side. "It's not very good, and it's downstream, but it's defensible, and it's free."

The Proctor turned to look at the interloper. It was a common citizen, a huntsman by the look of him. Sighing, he waved the man forward. It was too much to hope for that the Orcs would simply go away, so...

"It's a hunting camp I've used in the dry season.", the hunter explained. "It isn't easy to find, so I'll have to show you."

The Orcs picked up their gear and followed the hunter. The Proctor gathered his guards and followed the Orcs, and some of the crowd gathered their courage and followed the guards.

The odd procession snaked its way through the afternoon celebrations and out of town. Across the fields they went, the ground getting softer with each step, until it was too marshy for even the most desperate of attendees at the games. They approached what looked like a grove of trees growing in a shallow lake. The way lead to a narrow path, truly hard to find, but solid enough to bear a man's weight. The stench grew as they went, until it curled the noses of all present, save the Orcs. Finally the path widened out to a clearing. The ground was hard and lumpy, being held together by a tangle of tree roots, and a circle of stones in the center showed where a cooking fire had burned. A small stack of firewood stood to one side.

The air was thick with the stench of human waste, as the drainage from the revelers field was oozing its way into the swamp, and the clouds of flies would have darkened the sun, were it not already obscured by the cursed sky.

The hunter vanished rapidly, struggling to hide his smile, leaving the Orcs afloat on the largest turd in the city's cesspool. Laughter floated up from the crowd as the people left. All but one.

Sylus, who had caught sight of the procession as it made its way through the campgrounds, addressed the Kergen, who was still recovering from his event. "I had 10 Dinar on you. You were cheated."

Kergen looked at the Half Elf, unsure whether to listen or to kill him on sheer principle. Exhaustion provided what wisdom couldn't, and he waved the stranger closer.

"What do you mean, cheated?", he asked.

"That Roman fellow, Marcus. He cheated you. Had the race fixed so you couldn't win.", Sylus explained, making it up as he went. "All the other runners got to ride out to the field last night. They didn't tell you, so you had to walk, and got there tired. And his men got to set the course. A rabbit can dive through a hole the wolf won't fit, you know."

"You, Goat!", he bellowed, calling to his slave. "Find where the Roman is camped, and learn if this is true."

"Oh, he's camped on the other side of the city, upstream of the campgrounds.", Sylus offered helpfully.

"Outside the city? Outside the campgrounds?", Karanga asked? "Kergen if they're out of the Olympic grounds, then..."

"They're outside the so called 'peace of the Olympics!", Kergen finished for him, a cruel smile flowing across his lips.

Pendaclese fled the camp, happy to leave on any excuse whatsoever.

Sylus quickly caught up with him, and the two spoke.

"How did you learn of General Marcus treachery?", the Half-Satyr asked.

"I didn't. I just made that up.", Sylus laughed. "If Kergen kills the Roman, or the Roman kills Kergen, it's all good to me."
***
The overcast day was waning into an overcast evening when Markus met with the thief.

"Any news?", Markus asked, laying a coin on the table.

"Did you know", the thief began, "that the equipment used in the game is all on loan? Some javelin are better than others, some discus are better balanced than others? It's just the luck of the draw whether you get the heaviest shot or the lightest one?"

"Do tell", the priest prompted.

"Yes, it seems that Senator Denius has applied a bit of gold to that balance for the Javelin throw tomorrow. His champion will find an excellent weapon in his hand for every round. Better yet, I know which official is involved, and where he breaks his fast. A small accident, nothing serious, or perhaps some of Castor's oil in his meal, and Fortuna once again governs. Shall I arrange it? Or would you prefer a more direct approach? I know where the gear is stored, and how to gain access."

Markus considered this. He wouldn't be part of an "accident" any more than he would be part of an assassination, but there were other possibilities. "Can we add a javelin to the mix? Something oversized and unwieldy? Something that they'd likely give to the Kergen?"

"Anything is possible, for a price."

Gold crossed the table, and the sanctity of the games were violated yet again. But the business wasn't done.

"General Marcus has heard of Calvinus plight, his men scattered and his quarters undefended.", the boy confided, getting away from the games "He has passed an invitation that the General join him at the streamside site. There is talk of an alliance. But there's more."

Coins appeared in the Priest's hand, but remained there. "If this is worth it...", he cautioned.

"It is. You aren't the first person who has bought this information from me. The Centurion who dropped his pouch has also inquired. He asked me to arrange some local talent. Three men, one window. General Calvinus won't see another dawn."

The coins had scarcely hit the table before the Jovian Priest was gone, running through the crowds towards his companions.
***
"We have to do something!", Markus declared.

"Why?", asked Cassius bluntly, his disgust for machinations of power obvious. "I've heard the same rumors, only it was the Kergen who hired the Assassins."

"No, Kergen is trying to kill General Marcus", Sylus put in.

"Then who's Marcus trying to kill?", asked Appelenea, looking somewhat confused. "Shouldn't he be plotting against Dennius?

"He is.", Seeburn assured her. "He's just using an alliance instead of Assassins."

"Well, as long as someone's doing it, it's good enough for me.", laughed Cassius.

"I met General Calvinus as we traveled here.", Nedel offered. "He hadn't much time for me, but I may be able to speak to him, to give him a warning. Would that do?"

"We're supposed to keep our heads low.", Cassius reminded his companions. "Somehow interfering in the affairs of 'high and mighty' seems like a way to lose them entirely."

"We'll go with you to warn him", Markus declared, ignoring Cassius cautions.

"I'll go see that General Marcus stays out of trouble", Sylus said, though he had no such intentions."
***
"Stand and identify yourself!", came the challenge, for the third time. There had been guards at the door, and guards at the stair, and now there were guards at the entrance to Calvinus quarters. His men may have had scattered chambers, but it didn't look as if they got to spend much time in them.

"I am Prince Nedel of Transl, and I must speak with the Emperor.", Nedel declared boldly. "I have news of a plot against his life."

"Tell me, and I'll decide if the Emperor is to be disturbed.", the guard declared.

Nedel briefly explained what was known, and the guard nodded curtly. He then gestured his companion to watch them as he went to the chambers of Emperor/General Calvinus.

"Hail Caesar!", he declared, raising his hand in salute. "Prince Nedel wishes to speak with you. His spies have uncovered a plot against your life."

"Another one?", came the almost bored response. Then, with a sigh, he waved for the guard to admit the "Prince" and his party.

As they entered, they saw the General studying a large map board that depicted the city. Troop units were in place on the board, as if he were planning to lay siege to Athens. He straightened himself, and turned to meet his guests.

Markus raised his hand in salute, then began his tale. "My agents in the city report that Senator Denius has learned of your meetings with General Marcus. Fearing an alliance, his agents have engaged three assassins to prevent the meeting. We fear for your safety, Emperor."

Then Cassius stepped forward. "My sources agree, though they say that it is the Kergen who is responsible."

The General stroked his beard absently with one hand as he weighed the information. "I'd have been surprised if Denius didn't try something like this. For a man in my position, if someone in Rome isn't plotting against you, you aren't doing your job. But this is more immediate. I doubt that the Kergen would bother though. He'd want to kill me himself. Still, the warning is timely. My meeting with the General was supposed to be confidential. If your agents know of it, then Denius undoubtedly does."

"Your Imperial Highness", began Nedel. "I have learned some of the Gypsy magic, and can glamour myself into your seeming. Let me walk in your place when you leave for the meeting, to draw the assassin's blade away from you."

The General/Emperor looked at Nedel with newfound respect. The man was willing to take a blade for him, a quality he had not attributed to the slender lad. "Very well. We leave for General Marcus camp before dawn. My men will find a place for you here. You'll need your rest."

He then turned his attention to the Jovian Priest. "Did I not see you with the Senator's party? Are you betraying your master?"

Markus sweated before the judgment of the famed commander. "My duty to the Empire is higher", he stammered.

Calvinus again stroked his beard, taking a long moment before pressing on. "So Denius is using local 'talent', is he? Do you know who commissioned them? Not Denius or his factor, but the man in the middle."

"I don't have a name, but I can find out.", Markus said, sweating. He knew the lad on sight, but had never actually asked his name. But for that thin technicality he would have been lying to the Emperor, which was always a bad idea.

"Do so. He has plotted against the Emperor, and must be dealt with accordingly." He then waved his dismissal, and turned back to the map.

The companions gave a final salute and withdrew.
***
Nedel had seen the "quarters" the guard could offer him. There were two men already asleep in the room, and his place would have been on the floor. So he and Appelenea had stepped out into the evening air, and wandered down to an outdoor cafe' to pass some time.

Cassius had stepped out as well, to walk the streets and see what trouble was to be had.

Markus and Seeburn had hurried back to the pastry shop when a certain street urchin was known to frequent, but the boy was nowhere to be seen, and the proprietor claimed not to even know what they were talking about. They decided to return to Calvinus' rooms, by a different route.

The cafe' was moderately well lit, and had a fair amount of custom. There were people from many lands in the city at this time, but for some reason one small group caught Nedel's sharp eye. The patrons of this particular establishment were of a kind. Though they called many different places home, they all wore clothing of a certain quality, a cut above the common worker, as appropriate for this slightly upper class area. But this small group wore robes of duller color, and the fringes were slightly worn.

The Sorcerer caught Appelenea's eye and nodded towards the table, and three men who sat around it. She cocked an ear, and was able to make out some of what was said:

"You've had enough.", one of the men muttered to his companion. "You'll need a clear head."

"Then I'll drink clear wine!", snarled his companion, draining the dregs from his goblet before reaching for the pitcher once again. "I hold my wine better than you hold your tongue."

"Peace, you two.", the third said. "You're always like this. Why do you work together if you hate each other so much?"

"It's the waiting.", the first grumbled, peering through the trees at a window down the way. "Doesn't that man ever sleep?"

Appelenea shared the products of her eavesdropping with Nedel, who glanced in the direction the men had been looking. Calvinus' window was clearly visible, candle lit and unshuttered in the summer heat. A tree stood nearby, providing shade during the day, but a danger at night.

"They aren't going to wait for him to leave", Nedel whispered in alarm. "They're striking tonight!"

Appelenea laughed and nodded, as if at some lover's jest, and asked for a cup of the dark Turkish blend. It would be a long night, after all.
***
The light in Calvinus window had been out for some time before the trio departed. They looked left, towards Calvinus window, but turned right and vanished into the night.

A few minutes later, three dark cloaked figures skulked up the greenway towards Calvinus' window from the far end of the block. Two stepped into the shadow of a tree, while the third accepted a leg-up and vanished into its branches.

Nedel had gone to warn Calvinus, and was stationed inside, guarding the Emperor. Calvinus, upon hearing the warning, had switched places with the guards from the hall, and now stood beside a Sorcerer who bore a striking resemblance to the General himself.

Seeburn and Markus had returned, and stood near the cafe', while Sylus hid in the shadows across the street. Cassius was nowhere to be seen.

A brief flare of light within the foliage caught Seeburn's eye, as the assassin lit something. There was a brief rustle in the branches, and a soft impact within the General/Emperor's chambers.

Then an arrow streaked through the night, drawing blood from a dark cloaked figure, and the peace was broken. Seeburn's hand sought another shaft for his bow, even as his treebound target shifted to place the trunk between himself and the archer.

From his hiding place at the far end of the block, Cassius swore. They were going to ruin everything. The death of the General, at the hands of the Senator, would send the Empire into war with itself. Rome would be gone, just as Rome had destroyed his own home, and something new and better could rise from the ashes. But there was no help for it now. He drew his blade and charged.

Appelenea smiled. The assassins had chosen the wrong place to ply their trade. "Root Bind", she whispered, laying her hand on the ground.

Instantly the green way before her rippled with movement, as each and every plant in the area began to writhe and twist, looking for something to hold.

Cassius found his legs becoming mired in the suddenly clinging grass, dragging his advance to a halt. By sheer perseverence he manage to reach his target, but was then rooted to the spot.

One of the assassins saw the spell ripple through the grass, like the wind through a field of grain, and managed to gain a foothold on the tree's rough bark before he was bound. He then began to dash away, twisting and sliding his feet free in a slow motion flight for freedom.

The second one found himself with his feet rooted to the ground, facing the dark skinned warrior from the southern continent. A flex of the wrist and blades appeared in his hands, as if by magic.

The third one found himself being grappled and bodily held by the branches of the tree. And though he twisted wildly, all he managed to do was lose his footing so that he was now fully suspended by the grasping branches.

"Fool!", Cassius swore as he drove his blade at his opponent. "You got caught!"

The dark-robed figure parried the quick thrust, and replied with one of his own. Then a smile spread across his face. "Hard to dodge when your feet are held, eh?" Then he shifted his grip upon the blade, preparing for a different kind of strike.

"Titan's Stature", intoned Marcus, directing the blessings of Jupiter towards the Barbarian from the west. Seeburn's form began to swell, and soon he stood as tall as a giant.

He backed off a few paces, then ran and leaped, clearing a broad span of the clutching grass, then slogging forward towards his foes. But grass and trees are the death of mountains, and they truly care nothing for size, for the larger you are, the more there is to hold. His pace ground to a halt almost at once.

Above, two guards coughed, gagging on the sleep smoke that the assassin had released into the room. One staggered and fell, while the other reached the relatively fresh air of the window. Looking out, he saw the dark robed man struggling within the branches. He lunged with his blade, and within moments he too was a prisoner of the tree.

The fleeing Assassin found himself being pursued by a guard, as the General's soldiers were far from asleep on watch. Both struggled to take step after grass-ripping step, as another guard called the alarm."

"Assassins in the night! Alarm, Alarm!", the man cried, as he approached the furious struggle between Cassius and his hooded foe.

Cassius took a quick glance over his shoulder at the approaching guard, and that was all the opening his foe needed. A quick feint with his parrying blade, a short thrust upward beneath the edge of the armor, and Cassius was done. He fell, his blood now watering the grass that held him firm in place, for the grasses cared nothing for living or dead.

Seeburn ploughed forward, step by plodding step, until he reached the tree. There he saw the one man, painfully out of reach, facing an Imperial guard, while the other was slowly strangling himself in an attempt to escape the branches. A quick slash of his titanic weapon, and the suspended man's struggles ceased.

Appelenea looked at Markus, and saw the look of frustration on his face. Cassius was dying, and he couldn't be reached. Seeing that the enemy were not going to escape, she asked the grasses to release their prisoners. And slowly, they responded, relaxing their grip.

It was over.

 

[Greenfield]

***
The city guard hauled the remains of the three assassins away, and the witnesses confirmed the Companions hadn't been the ones to break the peace, so the moment of madness was over.

Markus was about to head home to bed when he realized something: He had been seen helping General Calvinus. And his contact didn't have a problem selling information to both sides, so if he wasn't in trouble with Senator Denius yet, he would be soon enough.

Nedel came ot his rescue. "I'm staying here for the night.", he told his friend. "Just because these men failed doesn't mean that Denius has given up, so I'll still be walking in Calvinus' place tomorrow. You can take my apartment for the night, until you know if it's safe to return to the estates."
***
Nedel held his breath as they left the building, and tried to keep his feet moving in a proper march step. The face he wore wasn't his own, but somehow that didn't add any confidence.

Two soldiers marched ahead of him, one to each flank, and more marched behind. Back, somewhere in the luggage train, walked a man wrapped in a blanket, bearing the armor and personal gear of General Calvinus ne Caesar, his face turned towards the ground.

The skin between Nedel's shoulders itched as he walked, but not with the itch a man can scratch. Rather, it was the anticipation of the arrow or blade that he expected any moment.

Of course, he knew that it wouldn't be an arrow. It would be a dozen. Hadn't it taken over 20 dagger thrusts to kill Julius Caesar? No one would expect the real Calvinus to fall from a single arrow.

As they walked though, he began to relax. It wasn't that he felt any safer, but simply that he grew more philosophical: An assault intended to kill the General would be so fast and overwhelming that he'd probably be dead before he knew it had even begun.

But as they passed windows and alleys, crowded squares and open shops, no attack came. And finally they were on the outskirts of the city. He'd had to renew his spell once, to maintain the seeming, but he'd made it out alive. Now Calvinus himself took the lead, now that they were away from the obvious ambush spots, and the General himself lead them the rest of the way to the camp of General Marcus.

The procession came to a halt as they approached the edge of the military encampment. Nedel could see that saplings had been felled and lashed to stouter threes to form a fence, marking the perimeter. Minor earthworks had been dug, making the camp even more defensible.

But what held his attention was at the front of the column. The two Generals were standing face to face, guards flanking each. Then, as one, each raised their right hand to their chest then extended it in a salute, and in one voice they both cried, "Hail Caesar!"

Calvinus' soldiers found that the south end of the clearing had been extended and made ready for them, and they began to erect their camp with the sure routine of long practice.

And the two Generals retired to the command tent, and were not seen again for the rest of the day.
***
Marcus made his way across the field, keeping his eye peeled for a certain ragged child. The boy hadn't been at their usual meeting spot, but then they weren't scheduled to meet until sunset. Still, he knew that every pickpocket in town would be out working the crowd at today's event.

He spotted several young men, and got something of an education in street technique. Some worked in pairs, some played cut-and-run, and a few clever ones seemed to be able to lift items while their hands were carrying a burden, or tucked into their robes. He bumped against such a one, with a hand resting firmly on his own purse, and discovered that the "arm" was merely a well stuffed sleeve. The child's real arm was tucked inside his robes, reaching out through well placed slits to ply his trade.

But the specific thief he sought was lost in the crowd.

The event itself began with a priest calling the blessings of Nike upon all competitors, the proctors sweeping all the spectators from the field of play. The blessing was real, for even though magic was illegal in the events, it was deemed that the best way to avoid anyone cheating was to grant the same divine aid to all.

There were fortunes being wagered on the outcome, but the presence of one competitor seemed to be holding the attention of everyone on the field. The Kergen towered over his opponents, and was looking over the assortment of javelin standing near the line. Some were long and slender, some were heavier. One stood out though. It was nearly 8 feet long, and adorned with bronze rings and feathers, clearly a war trophy of some kind.

The city champion set the mark well, hurling his javelin nearly to the end of the pitch. This was the target that all others would be aiming at, and it would take a mighty throw to even make the distance.

Music played and money began to change hands again as more wagers were placed. Suddenly the Kergen was the favorite. He didn't throw until the second set, which built the anticipation, as well as the number of wagers on his throw.

To the surprise of no one, he was given the heavier war spear, which seemed to please him. He raised it over his head, shaking it as if calling troops to battle, then surged forward towards the line and let fly.

The air went still as the crowd took a collective breath and held it. Then there was rejoicing and merriment, and laughter. And one single roar of rage. The javelin had carried less than two thirds of the distance, and wasn't even on a good line towards the target.

And no matter how the great Mountain Orc raged and roared, he couldn't drown out the laughter that followed him as he retreated to his camp.
[FONT=&quot]***
Markus headed towards the Kergen's camp, the huge javelin bouncing on his shoulder with each step. He noted a number of human guards stationed at that end of the campground, and they faced the swamp, rather than the teeming sea of tents that filled the field.

"Is it all right for me to go to the Vandal camp?", Markus asked.

"One man, going in there?", the guard asked in surprise. "You might not come out, you know. That champion of theirs looked ready to kill when he came through."

Markus nodded his agreement. "I'll just talk to the Orc over there. He can carry my message to Kergen."

He approached the Orc guard, who looked at him with open hostility. "Will you take this to Kergen?", he asked, offering the great javelin.

The Orc recognized the weapon, and shook his head. "Not for my weight in Elf meat.", he declared firmly.

"But I really want to give it to him.", Markus declared.

"Ah", said the Orc, suddenly giving that Orcish grimace that mixes a smile with a baring of teeth. "That I can help you with. Come along, and you can give it yourself."

Markus found himself being hustled down the bath, a heavy hand on his shoulder guiding and urging him on.

As he entered the clearing he could see that the Kergen was still foaming at the mouth. He had ripped up a sapling tree, and was chewing on it, and all of his men were standing as far away as the limited space allowed.

"Kergen!", called the guard. "This human has come with a gift!"

The Mountain Orc's head snapped around, a torn piece of timber still in his teeth. He saw the quivering Cleric, and recognized what it was he carried.

"I thought you might want to have this.", Markus offered. Then good sense prevailed, and he dropped the weapon, turned and fled as fast as he could.

A heavy javelin nearly split the tree it struck, less than a foot from his head.

Markus had wanted the Kergen angry, and for better or for worse he had succeeded.
***
Markus was very worried about his 'friend', and was somewhat relieved to see him at the pastry shop where they had been meeting.

"I'm surprised to see you here, all things considered.", the boy began, as he signaled one of the slaves over. "The way I hear it, there's a price on my head, thanks to you."

"Now that's not true!", declared Markus, firmly. "I never gave your name to anyone."

"Well, the tale is being told that you swore to bring me in.", the boy countered. "Don't worry though. You were in a tight spot. I would have done the same to you, if our positions were reversed. In fact, I still could.", he added, laughing. "I could obtain Denius' protection by naming you as the one who sold him out. "

"I had to tell him something.", Markus said, sweating. "But I'd never actually do it."

"It's okay. Lots of my friends would sell me out.", the thief explained. "We'll probably laugh about this later on. Meanwhile, shall we get down to business? What's your interest today? Politics? The games? Smuggling?"

Markus looked down at his pastry, which remained untasted and was getting cold. "I think we need to end this.", he said quietly. "Maybe we will laugh about this later, but if Calvinus has me followed, and his spies see me meeting with you, it could get you killed. So here's the rest of what I owe you, and a bit extra. Keep your head down, at least until the Games are over. Once Calvinus leaves town, you should be safe."

The boy nodded, sweeping up the scattering of coins. They vanished into the folds of his tunic, uncounted.

"Okay. I'm not afraid of Calvinus or his men.", the thief assured his friend. "I have a lot more friends in this city than he does, but it is foolish to take chances. Fortuna's smile is notoriously fickle. And Denius is already looking for you, by the way. I didn't name you, you were seen at the fight. And there aren't that many Clerics of Jupiter in Athens, so it wasn't that hard to figure out it was you. Here we call the god by his real name, Zeus. If you need a place to hide, I have a few bolt holes around that you’ll fit into. For a price, of course."

The pair parted ways as they had met, and Markus never did ask the boy's name.
***
The games swept by with few further developments. Seeburn put on a decent showing in the Shot put and Diskus, while Sylus surprised everyone by actually winning the Archery contest.

Seeburn had pinned his hopes on the 100 Yard Dash, more than the other games, for he excelled at speed of foot.

When race day came, he found himself in the same heat as the Kergen, who laughed at the puny Humans. "You'd better run, pink-skins!", he growled.

His threats were met by a line of grim smiles, and they all settled down to race.

"I'll beat you myself.", Seeburn said. "Just like I beat you in the Javelin."

Kergen glared at the Celt with pure, raw hate in his eyes, and the highlander returned that hate, measure for measure.

Then the trumpets lit the morning with their brilliant tones, and the call came down: "On your marks! Get set! Go!"

And they were off. Kergen and Seeburn were quick off the line, with Kergen gaining a slight lead. But the other runners swept past the both of them like antelope, running light and free. By the time the dueling pair had their attention back on the race, the other runners had completed half the course, and no matter how hard they pressed, they couldn't overcome that lead.

Kergen had suffered another humiliating defeat, his only satisfaction being that he had outrun the Scot.

And again, he retreated to his camp, accompanied by laughter.

[/FONT]

 

[Greenfield]

***
"I will avenge myself on them all!", roared the huge Orc. "Today I kill!"

His own men looked happy, now that their leader had an opportunity to vent his rage on someone other than them.

The event was the wrestle, and while there were many wagers placed on individual matches, there were almost none placed on the final outcome. Everyone knew who would win, and nobody would bet against him.

The Kergen stalked out onto the field to face his first opponent. He saw that the competitors were stripping off all their clothes, and had slaves rubbing olive oil into their skin.

"What? Puny humans afraid their pretty robes get bloody?", he laughed.

"No Master", Pendaclese explained. "They don't want to give their opponent anything to grab. They oil themselves to help slip out of holds.

The great Orc laughed his cruel laugh and began to peel off his hides. "You right, goat-boy", said, pointing to his first opponent's crotch. "He have nothing. Not like Vandal!"

The huge Orc then made a show out of oiling his own body, paying particular attention to his manly parts and laughing at the reaction of the crowd.

Then the trumpets flared, and a herald called the match.

"We begin with Kergen of the Vandal, facing Achilos of Sparta. You both know the rules, don't you?"

Kergan looked confused. "What rules? It's a fight!"

"There are rules, Vandal.", the judge explained. "The match is fought in the circle. If one of you leaves the circle, he loses."

"Ah, so puny Human can't run.", the Orc laughed. "Good, I like rules."

"No biting, and you may grab and hold your opponent, but you may not hit them. And if you touch the ground with anything but your hands or feet, you lose. The match will be three falls, and the winner is the one who wins the most."

Kergen nodded, happily anticipating a chance to rip the smaller foe limb from limb.

The first fall was over almost before it began. Kergen swept the Spartan up in his arms, then twisted and cast the smaller man away like a child. The warrior struggled to land on his feet, but those feet were well outside the marked circle.

"That was too easy, over too fast.", boasted Kergen. "Maybe he need help, eh? Someone want to fight my other hand?"

After a short time for recovery, the pair entered the circle again. Again the signal to start was given, and again Kergen lunged for his smaller opponent. But the Spartan was quicker and ducked low, wrapping his arms around the Kergen's tree-trunk thigh. He lifted, unbalancing his larger foe. The Kergen stopped his fall with an outstretched hand, but like his foe in the previous fall, he had touched outside the ring. The second fall went to the Spartan.

"Goat!", the great Orc called. "My hands are slippery. Get me the tar."

Pendaclese had wondered how long it would take for Kergen to realize that his opponents hadn't applied the oil to themselves, so their hands weren't greasy. But what Kergen had called for was something else.

The Orc covered his hands with a thick and gritty black liquid, then scrubbed them off in the sand. The third and deciding fall was about to begin.

As the signal came, Kergen grabbed his foe in a great bear hug, raking the man's ribs with his claws. The Spartan arched his back in shock as his flesh was shredded, but still struggled to break the hold. Kergen hefted the smaller man well over his head, then with a cry of triumph he dropped to one knee and slammed his helpless foe down across the other, shattering his spine.

He rolled the all but lifeless form to the sand and raised his arms in victory.

"The winner is Achelos, of Sparta!", came the call from the judge. "Kergen, your knee was on the sand before he hit. You lost."

The great Orc's eyes flashed red, and with a roar he lunged for the judge.

The judge, however, was no fool, and had feared this kind of reaction. He was already running.

Kergen thundered through the crowd, bowling people out of the way as his quarry fled for his life, darting left and right to throw his pursuer off his stride.

Four guards stepped in, lowering their pikes as Kergen charged. Arrows suddenly appeared in the Orcs back as others joined in.

In his insane rage, Kergen felt nothing, saw nothing except the man he wanted to kill, just out of reach. His momentum carried him forward onto those pikes where he finally stopped, one pike piercing his breast and emerging from his back.

To the amazement of all, however, the great Orc pressed onward, pulling himself down that lance, hand over hand, until he could reach the man who held it. With a single stroke of his huge clawed hand, he nearly tore the man's arm off.

A second flight of arrows struck, and still he raged, but now his blood was flowing like a stream, and the remaining spearmen drove him to the ground.

Markus was busy with the fallen Spartan until his attendants displaced him and worked to staunch the fallen warrior’s wounds. The Jovian looked up as he heard the cries of the crowd when the Vandal fell.

"Do we save this man's life?", came the call from the Herald, appealing to the crowd as if it were the great arena.

Five thousand hands turned their thumbs down.

"Then let his life or death remain in the hands of the gods.", came the judgment.

The other Orcs had formed a circle around their fallen leader, and were watching as he bled.

Markus pressed forward, for it was his birthright to be the hand of the gods. He jostled his way between two Orcs and found himself facing Cassius across the body. Each laid a hand on the great spear, intending to remove it.

Karanga, now the leader of the Orcs stopped them. "It is the way of our people. Who is not strong enough to stand deserves to fall. He will rise, or not, on his own."

The two companions stood in silent witness as the great Orc hero slowly bled out. Then the bleeding stopped, and they saw his wounds begin to close. His breath lost the ragged tone, and he was visibly regaining strength.

But even the Kergen was mortal, and his strength finally failed him. The rise and fall of his chest ceased, and he died.

The Orcs lifted their fallen leader and, for the final time, retreated to their camp. This time there was no laughter.
***
The rumors were flying fast and furious. Both General Calvinus and General Marcus had withdrawn their sponsorship of champions in the Chariot Race. They had instead chosen to compete themselves.

Nedel had given up on seeking divine guidance, and now turned to a more reliable source: Rumors!

He sought out a certain thief that Markus had recommended, but the lad was keeping his own counsel, and avoiding public contact. And although the boy had claimed to know everyone, nobody would even admit to knowing him.

Still, the pursuit wasn't entirely fruitless.

"I'm Parnassus", the lad said, by way of introduction. "It's said you'll pay for information. What would you like to know?"

"How much is it going to cost?", Nedel asked in return.

"Not a penny more than it's worth.", the boy replied. "What's your pleasure?"

"What do you know of the Vandals?"

"The ones here, or the horde?", the boy teased. "The bastards left last night, packed up and gone, headed north. Good riddance. They stank up the swamp."

Nedel nodded, and laid a few coin on the table, leaving the rest in his hand as an implicit offer. "And what of the Caesars?"

"The Senator is sweating blood. Word is that the two Generals have reached an accord of sorts, and he isn't part of it. Some say that they're going to try to kill each other in the arena. Others say that the winner will be Caesar, and the other will be given command of the armies. My thought is that, if Denius has anything to say about it, neither will finish that race."

"Well, I've been staying in the military camp.", Nedel said, happy to be better informed than the source for once. "Marcus and Calvinus saluted each other as Caesar when they met, and have been spending a lot of time together. No weapons drawn, and no time apart to plot against each other. Calvinus has a legion two days away, one by fast march, and Marcus has none within a thousand leagues of here. If they were going to settle this with blood, they'd do it in a duel, or Calvinus would simply have his troops march in and take Marcus prisoner. So they may be racing for the Empire, but it won't be to kill each other."

The boy nodded, happy to get such direct news. "Still, whether it's Marcus or Calvinus, Denius' head isn't too secure right now and he knows it. He won't let it end without blood."
***
The closing event of the games was intended to be a spectacle, and no effort had been spared in making it happen.

The competition field had been cleared, and the track had been laid out, a full half mile around, and bounded by heavy rails and stones placed by an army of slaves. Pennants fluttered in the breeze atop long poles held by attendants, and crews stood by around the track to help clear any wrecks. And, of course, the crowds pressed in.

Slaves moved among the crowds offering fruit juices and wines, cheeses, fruit or vegetable and roast meat on a skewer, a local delicacy called "Kabob", as well as the honeyed pastries the region was known for.

Raised platforms stood in place outside the track to offer a better view of the start and finish, and three distinct areas had been roped off there for the Imperial parties, but two of them were without their leaders.

There was a collective gasp as the chariots wheeled onto the track. Instead of the normal, light racing chariots, there were two heavy war chariots in the front row, one on the inside edge and one outside. The starting positions had been determined by the casting of lots, though some positions had been traded about, and it was obvious that the two Generals had arranged for lead positions.

The gamblers scrambled to adjust their wagers yet again as they saw the change in the field. Normally there's a careful balance in designing and building a racing chariot, with the craftsmen striving to make the frame as light as they could, yet strong enough to survive the race. And of course, no one knows in advance just how many obstacles a chariot may have to roll over in a race. War chariots are considered far too heavy to race well, but their presence boded ill for the survival of the lighter racers.

Marcus stood tall in his colors, his long red cape fluttering in the breeze. Calvinus also wore the imperial emblems, though he had chosen to add more than ceremonial armor. The two men smiled at each other, though there was little of affection in either face.

Then, with now familiar fanfare of trumpets, the race began.

Calvinus whipped his team furiously, gaining a half length at the start, then immediately cut inward towards the inside rail. And "cut" was the decisive term, for his wheels were adorned with long wicked spikes that raked the flanks and legs of the team on his left. The horses rebelled and shied away from the pain, while simultaneously responding to the lash of their own master. The result was a disaster.
Horses stumbled and chariots collided, turning the outside rail of the starting area into bloody chaos. Wiser or more skillful pilots had held their teams for a few heartbeats at the start, to avoid such a problem, but several had let their eagerness get the better of them, and ended up part of the pile. Pennants were lowered to warn drivers of the hazards of the track, even though all were painfully aware, and emergency crews advanced as quickly as conditions allowed to clear the wreckage, and attend to the injured, both man and beast.

Marcus' team, meanwhile, had sprung forward smartly, and were well clear before the tumult had reached his side of the field. He wielded his lash expertly, driving his horses with the sound of it cracking by their ears, or the lightest touch along their withers. He drew no blood from his team, but rather inspired them to do their best as he edged them away from the rail leading into the first turn.

Others in the field might have overtaken Marcus, but they shied away from his own assortment of spikes and blades, and so couldn't jostle for position in the normal manner.

The companions, whether by chance or by design, were scattered among the crowd, each watching a different section of the track.

Seeburn, who stood near the judges stands and the imperial platforms, heard one of the odds makers comment, "Aye, the General leads for now, but he'll kill his horses if he keeps them at that pace. I'll take your money, friend, but it's a poor wager." Seeburn, however, knew that with an empire at stake, Marcus would indeed drive his team until their hearts burst, and consider it a bargain.

Cassius was on a slight rise by the beginning of the first turn, looking for trouble, while Nedel stood towards the narrow end of the track. Markus had decided to observe from the thick of the poorer spectators, as far from Senator Denius as he could be, which placed him at the start of the second turn.

It was Appelenea, however, standing back from the far straight, that spied a problem. One of the attendants seemed nervous, and aside from the sling of bandages slung across his shoulders, she spotted a second bag, concealed beneath the first. A bag that seemed oddly lumpy, with many small points pressing into the fabric from within.

The horses thundered past, with Marcus in the lead and Calvinus close behind, his lash flying freely among the teams of his competitors, leaving chaos in his wake. Pennants were being lowered to mark crashes all along the way. But no one crashed near the nervous attendant, so he remained by the rail as the Half-Elven beauty made her way forward.

She wracked her brain for a way to stop the man, reviewing what she could ask Nature to do, but it had little to offer her against the cold iron in the man's sack.

Finally, after much struggle, she found herself near the rail, and one of the pennant bearers.

"Excuse me, but that man over there, in the blue tunic? He has a bag of caltrops with him, and I think he plans to interfere in the race."

The attendant looked at her, unsure of what to do. Thinking quickly, she quietly raked a fingernail across her thigh, where the split in her gown left it exposed. Stepping back, she raised the leg.

"See?", she asked. "I brushed against him, and something sharp in that bag did this to me! And it clanked like iron!"

The pennant bearer made a decision, and lowered his pole to mark a hazard, even though there was no wreckage to clear. He raised a free hand in a signal to one of the guard patrols, calling them to him.

The man in blue was watching them both, but held his ground until he saw the attendant talking to the guard, and point directly at him.

Then his nerve broke, and he fled quickly, the guard in hot pursuit.
***
"Did you hear?", said the odds maker, as he paid off the winners. "Someone tried to lace the track with spikes. The guard caught him, of course. All I can say is that he didn't have any money wagered with me!"

Denius face contorted with fury. Why couldn't he find decent help in this city? In Rome the matter would have been settled early on by the first men he'd sent.

He'd arranged for several teams around the track, all with the same instructions, yet when the first had lost his nerve and run, the others had been forced to discard the incriminating evidence. Marcus had won, and Calvinus had been seventh, out of a field of eleven teams. More than twenty had started the race, and nearly half had been wrecked.

Now it was time to bow, and hope he still had a head when he straightened up.

 

[Greenfield]

***
The celebrations went on throughout the afternoon, either interrupted or enhanced by the closing ceremonies, and the Parade of Champions.

“Sylus!”, called General Markus, as they strode together towards the temple of Nike, goddess of Victory. “It does my heart good to see one of my countrymen do so well in the Games. Will you join me for dinner tonight?”

“I’ve been invited to the feast at the temple of Diana, and I’ve already accepted”, he lied. While he had received such an invitation, he hadn’t accepted just yet. The General’s invitation, however, decided that for him. Better a foreign god than a foreign dictator, for Markus was no countryman of his, neither by race nor nation, and the Ranger had absolutely no desire to spend any time with the man.

“Well, come by later on.”, the General called. “I expect the celebration will run well into the night.”
***
“Prince Nedel”, the courier gasped, “I’m so glad I found you. I have a message for you.”

“Thank you, friend. May Hermes bless you.”, the Sorcerer replied, almost absently, as he scanned the parchment. A coin changed hands, and the lad was gone.
Quote:
My dear Prince,
I have not forgotten the service you and your company did for me, nor the courage you displayed on my behalf. I would be pleased if you could gather that company and attend the evening meal at my camp.

I hope to see you at sunset, and please, be prepared to celebrate.
[FONT=&quot]The message bore the full formal seal of General Calvinus. What was most interesting, however, was what was missing: Any reference to him as Caesar.
***
Seeburn spent his afternoon at the Archery range, where many were practicing, and a few private tournaments had been arranged. A few of the locals tried to entice him into a match, but he spotted them for the ringers that they were, and though they fired a few volleys together, he never let the wagers rise above a few coppers.

Appelenea had to pay a few bribes, but she finally found an opening at the baths, and spent the latter part of the afternoon washing a way the dust of ten thousand travelers, or so it seemed to her. Two weeks in the teaming, sweating, jostling madness that had been Athens were more than enough, and the chance to relax this way was well worth the cost. Slaves helped clean her, prepared her hair, and anointed her with fragrant oils. The long robe of white and blue felt strange, after the rougher garb of her homelands, but then the southern city was much warmer than her birthplace in the north.

Marcus took the opportunity to visit his father’s house, the temple of Zeus. His mother had always told him that Jupiter, as he was known in Rome, had come to her in the night, and that he was the product. Some laughed at the tale, but he believed with all his heart. So he spent his afternoon there, aiding the priests of the order, and attending to any number of bumps, scrapes, bruises and cuts. It seemed that the cost of drunken revelry was the same everywhere, paid in accidental injury, and some that weren’t so accidental. But as he worked, blending both skill and magic as needed, he talked a bit and listened a lot.

“The Vandals were swearing their revenge when they left”, swore one man. “Mark my words, we haven’t heard the last of them!”

“I overheard the Senator swearing his revenge!”, swore another man with equal certainty, though Marcus took both tales with a grain of salt. After all, the Vandals wouldn’t have been swearing in either Greek or Latin, and the Senator wouldn’t have been wandering the greens by himself where he might be overheard. But gossip was a coin of sorts, for sometimes within the dross came the golden sparkle of truth.

Prince Nedel spent the afternoon speaking with farmers from the market, and riding the nearby farms to assess this year’s crops. Though the produce gardens had been stripped clean to feed the multitudes of the Games, the grain fields, the orchards and the vines were what would feed the city this winter. What he found troubled him. The blossoms in the orchards were sparse, which meant a poor picking this autumn, and the vines were equally thin. The grain should have been as high as his shoulder by this time of year, and was barely to his ribs.

The city wouldn’t starve, for they had grainaries to fill in for poor years, but if this was what the fields looked like in this warm and abundant land, there would be empty bellies this winter in any city that wasn’t as wealthy as Athens.

[/FONT]

 

[Greenfield]

***
“Welcome”, came the call as the company entered the camp.

Some of the tents had apparently been removed to make way for the long feast table. Reclining benches were laid out, and the table itself was piled high with fruit and cheese, and the air was warm with the aroma of roasting meat and baking bread. This might be a field camp, but these men had had years of experience and knew how to live in style when the opportunity arose.

Nedel, remembering the seal on the invitation, saluted Calvinus as General, reserving the greater salute for Markus, now Caesar. His actual coronation would take place in Rome, but that was a technicality.

The feast was served, and the Generals took equal positions, sharing the center of the table. All of the soldiers joined in, save those few on guard. The camp slaves brought bread to begin with, followed by grilled trout, then roast pig, and a rarity, “Roman Ices”, a concoction of fruit wines over snow from the mountains.

As they broke from the feast, Calvinus rose and called on Nedel to stand as well.

“My friends”, the General began. “This man, an outlander from the northern part of my protectorate, has displayed uncommon loyalty and courage, as have those who serve him. They risked their lives stopping an attempted assassination, and I want them to know that their efforts are appreciated.

“To Nedel, the brave nobleman, master of the Gypsy magics, I offer a fine battle staff, well balanced, and bearing my mark. May it serve you well.”

Reaching back towards a slave, he retrieved his next gift. “To the lady Appelenea of the north, I offer this, a sickle crafted of silver, as suits the lady’s order.”

And so it went. To Seeburn he gave a blade of iron, crafted in the style of his homeland, nearly as long as the man was tall. To Cassius he gave a longsword of exceptional balance, also of iron, that bore the symbol of Carthage, the warrior’s home city. To Marcus he gave flail, light in the hand but heavy when it struck.

There were other awards as well. General Markus gave a fine set of runners boots to Achelos, the champion of the run from Marathon, replacing the man’s military sandals. Soldiers who had served with distinction were recognized, as were other Olympic champions. Notable by their absence were Sylus, who had won the Archery competition, and Kergen who had won at the Discus. One was at another feast, while the other was dead. But goblets were raised to both the absent and the fallen, in the spirit of the Olympics.

Then, suddenly, something dark fell from the evening sky, crashing in a heap of blood and feathers, so large and heavy that it broke the table with one wing.

“That’s an Owl of Athena”, gasped Appelenea, recognizing the giant birds used by the temple.

A rider staggered from the fallen bird and fell against the remains of the feast.

“The Vandals are coming.”, she managed to gasp before oblivion claimed her.
***
The camp erupted into activity. Soldiers left the remains of their meals, seized weapons and moved towards the perimeter, ready for battle.

The Jovian priest went to the fallen rider and shared with her the last of his father's blessings. He saw her wounds close, and her breathing eased, but it took a few moments for her eyes to open.

The two Generals' eyes met for a long moment, each reading the others intent. Markus spoke first.

"General Calvinus, I entrust to you the defense of Athens. Summon your Legion. I'll take command of the city guard, and make sure the walls are manned. If we move quickly, we may have them."

Appelenea had likewise summoned her healing talents, though her attention was directed at the wounded bird.

"His wounds are deep.", she observed as she worked. "The muscle is torn, not cut. This was done by claws."

"Yes", agreed the rider, struggling to sit up. "Please help him. I don't know what I'll do if he dies."

"Don't worry.", the Druid said reassuringly. "He might not be ready to fly today, but he'll be fine."

Calvinus, upon seeing that the rider was awake, moved towards her, all but shoving the healer aside in his haste.

"How close?", he demanded. "How many?"

"A full day's march, less if they press.", she said. "Their camp was north of Marathon, but now they move. From the night sky I counted hundreds of fires. Ten men to a fire, I'd estimate their force at almost five thousand."

"Clear the table, here!", the General ordered, then called to the guards at the command tent. Moments later the large tactical map was brought out and spread on the table.

In the background, slaves were striking the camp, and messengers ran with the speed of the wind to warn the city. Everyone would have to move inside the city walls, or they'd simply be killed when the enemy arrived. The city was like an overfull cup as it was, and was about to get worse.

The companions, having no specific duties, gathered around the great map. They had seen this in Calvinus chambers days before, but now the true meaning was more clear. It had looked as if he were planning to attack the city. Now they could see that he had been considering the movements of an attacking force, and how best to defend it.

"They approach from this direction", the Athenian acolyte explained. "They'll probably be slowed by the river, and may even camp there. Armies don't move as fast as single men, and they'll want to secure water before their final advance."

"Very good.", agreed Calvinus, as he stroked his beard thoughtfully. "Your temple truly does teach wisdom in battle."

"From what I could see, they were spreading as they moved, to insert themselves between the city and your troops. I was trying to see what strength they were sending south when the vultures attacked."

"I have a short flight of war eagles with my command, and a fire-drake, so we should be able to match them in the air.", Calvinus assured the rider. "The question will be timing. How soon will you and your mount be ready to carry the word to my command?"

"Owls are good night fliers, but we are scouts and messengers, not warriors.", the acolyte explained, adding the proverb, "There is no cover in the sky."

She continued, "To send anything by air is to lose it, for their vultures patrol by day and harpies by night. Your orders will have to travel by land, by runner or rider. Even if the Heliograph could reach your camp, there is no sunlight, even at noon."

"We'll carry your orders.", Nedel offered, though some of his allies looked at him oddly.

"Good man.", commended the General. "I'll send some of my own runners as well, each on a different road. At least one must get through!"
***
"I can make it fastest by myself.", Seeburn insisted. "Nothing personal, but you folks will just slow me down." He was looking at the slightly built Sorcerer and the willow-thin Druid in particular, but his statement covered them all.

"And the first Orc patrol you meet will be your last.", Marcus pointed out. "We do this together, or we don't do it at all."

The entire camp was on the march, heading into town with soldiers in front clearing the way. The word had spread, and the camping field had become a seething mob, pressing itself into a river of people struggling in the night, and all the gates were clogged. City guard stood on benches or tables to be seen above the crowd, striving in vain to keep order.

The two Generals were releasing men from their command to aid the city guard at key points, which helped, but even the two commands together had only so many soldiers they could spare.

In the middle of the madness the command group encountered a force of archers heading in the opposite direction, preparing to take positions on the walls.

"Sylus!", Nedel called, seeing his companion. "Join us, please."

The Half-Elf looked torn, his gaze darting from the troop of temple guards he had taken up with to his friends. Then he made his decision, and matched step with the Romans.

"What's going on?", he asked. "I would have thought the Imperial Guard would have been heading for the walls. The Vandals are due any minute!"

"No, they're still a day away.", Seeburn explained. The message had become rumor, and fear had added to it in the retelling. "We're assembling some teams of runners to try and get a message through to the Legion, seven leagues away."

"Well, count me in.", Sylus responded, looking around at the sea of bodies about them. "This city was crazy enough without this. It's time to get outside."

He spied a familiar form being bounced around by the crowd, and reached out a hand to pull the Half-Satyr into the relative safety of the Roman troop, before he was trampled by the mob. "Hey, Penn', we're getting out of here. Want to come?"

"Sure!', replied the Bard as he struggled to keep his balance. "Do I care where we're going?"

"Probably, and as soon as I know, I'll tell you.", laughed the Ranger.
***
The night was full dark when they set out. Most of the Roman runners would wait until daylight, but more than half of the companions could see in the darkness, and so they had elected to risk night travel.

They had been given directions, and a map, and General Markus had given the Cleric a vial of magical healing, in case it was needed.

"We'll follow the road for as long as we can", said Sylus, examining the map. "That way the Humans can keep the pace without breaking a leg."

"I know a song to aid the traveler.", offered the Bard. "It lightens the load and quickens the pace. But if I use what magic I have for that, I won't be able to aid you in battle. I don't know which is better."

"If we end up in any real fight, we're lost anyway.", Appelenea commented. "And the faster we get there, the better."

So the Bard struck up a lively tune, a nice rythmic piece paced almost for a quick dance, and the group found themselves trotting down the road almost effortlessly.

He managed to maintain that tune, and that pace, for almost an hour before his voice failed, and they found their pace slackening, but they pressed on into the night. It had been a long day, and it wasn't over yet.
***
"Hold!', gasped Nedel, clutching at his ribs. "I have a stitch in my side. I need to rest."

Everyone was feeling the strain of the long run. There were no stars visible, of course, but most estimated that they were still an hour short of midnight. Appelenea and Penn' were also showing signs of exhaustion, yet the need was pressing, so the party moved on at a walk.

After walking for an hour they picked up the pace again, resorting to the Roman march, running for 60 paces then walking the same amount. In this fashion they were able to continue for another two hours before exhaustion forced them to stop.

"We'll rest for a few hours and let our blisters cool.", Cassius suggested. "Set watches!"
***
Oddly it was Nedel, a Human, who spotted the trouble in the night. He heard a rustling sound, and something that might have been voices. He bend down and placed his hands on the ground, feeling his way in the darkness until he encountered a sleeping form, and nudged it awake.

"Voices off that way", he said, pointing in a direction he couldn't see at foes he could not make out, in the hopes that whoever he had awoken would fare better in the dark. Away from the city, and without even starlight, the Humans might as well have been wearing blindfolds.

Seeburn rolled to his feet, quiely drawing his new blade, the oiled leather of the scabbard making no noise at all. He quickly alerted the rest of the companions.

Then there was movement in the brush, and a silver gray form leaped into the clearing they had chosen as a camp, a small dark person on its back.

"I call upon the power of Fire!", Nedel shouted in a loud voice. "Terpsis Illuminatus!". His hand flared with power, which poured forth in a stream of light, taking on the form of a fiery man. "Kill them All!", commanded the Sorcerer, and the figure sprang forward.

As the light from the burning man filled the clearing, a second wolf came bounding through the brush, it's rider urging it to attack.

But the wolf balked at sinking his teeth into living flame, which also seemed impervious to the rider's short spear.

"Titan's Stature", cried Marcus, directing the blessing of the gods towards the highland warrior. Seeburn's form swelled with power, and he covered the distance between himself and the first wolf rider with three long strides. His blade bit deep, and the beast gave a yipping cry of shock.

But there were more Goblins pouring into the glade, not as quickly as their mounted companions, but their intent just as murderous. They were met with arrows from Sylus bow, and blood flowed freely.

And then it was chaos as iron and bronze crashed together, and both man and beast cried out in pain.

But the clash of arms cried aloud the name of Rome, and the Goblins found themselves taking the worst of it. Seeburn sported a ragged wound on his calf, but the wold who had delivered it was lying on its side, whimpering in pain, its partner dead a few yards away.

"Attack! Show no mercy!", screamed the Goblin leader in his rage, then turned on his heel and sprang away, seeking his own safety at the expense of his companions.

But his flight was short lived as Cassius' great blade found its mark, severing the small creature nearly in twain. His two remaining cohorts, knowing well the ways of their leader, had also turned to flee, and were quickly cut down.

And then it was over. The companions stood, looking at the carnage around them, their breath coming in great heaving gasps. The only sound was the thunder of their own heartbeats in their ears, and the whimpering of the crippled wolf.

 

[Greenfield]

***
"Oh, you poor thing!", cooed the Druid, as she looked at the wounded wolf.

"That 'poor thing' tried to tear my leg off!", Seeburn retorted angrily, as the Cleric tended his wounds.

"He only did what he was taught to do.", she responded. " Vitai Minorus", she intoned, granting the wounded animal a small solace. The crying stopped, though the animal was still badly hurt.

She spent the next several minutes with the animal, cleansing its wounds and talking to it quietly. By the time it was ready to rise, it had lost all hostility towards her. It moved towards its fallen mate and tried to nudge it awake, but such wakefulness would not come again in this life. Still, it lay down and waited, holding vigil for an awakening that would never come.

Meanwhile Marcus had taken stock of the rest of the party's condition, and aside from Seeburn's injuries, the rest were simple scrapes and bruises.

"Penn', we need to get you a weapon of some kind.", Cassius said, as he took stock of the items the Goblins had been carrying. He tossed the Bard a short sword. The bronze blade was pitted, but intact. Even so, as soon as the warrior saw the scrawny fey try to swing it, he reconsidered.

"You're going to hurt yourself that way, Penn'.", he advised, gently relieving the Half-Satyr of the unaccustomed weapon. "We'll start you with a staff, and I'll help you practice with it."

"Well, these guys have been on the road for a bit.", commented Sylus, as he looked at the assortment of coins the Goblins had been carrying. "I see Sheckles, Crowns, Dinar, and a dozen others I don't know. But here's something interesting.", he added, unrolling a piece of hide marked with chalk and charcoal. It was a map of sorts, crude but apparently useful.

"It looks as if they're marking off points of interest.", Seeburn said, peering over the Ranger's shoulder. "Probably farms and steadings they've raided on their way south."

The companions had been advised, when Calvinus had briefed them, that the Vandals would probably have three types of groups in the field.

Scouting parties would be built for speed, not combat, and would only stand and fight if they thought they had found easy pickings. Foraging groups would be out scavenging for food, and would have only one or two warriors among them. They'd flee an armed party. War parties, on the other hand, would try to kill them no matter what.

"It's not as if they're a real army.", Calvinus had explained. "They're more like locusts. Their commanders don't exercise any discipline, and splinter groups will fan out looking for whatever they can find."

This looked like a minor war band, or perhaps a scout group. The party had been lucky.

"I hope you don't have too high a price to pay for that fire spirit.", Sylus said in a worried tone, when Nedel joined them. "Pacts with being like that can cost a man his soul."

"Oh, that?", laughed the Sorcerer. "It was a trick of light and movement, nothing more. No fire, no substance, and no price to pay. Just a little something to distract a foe for a moment."

"Well, it did do that.", Penn agreed. All were keeping a visible distance from the Nordic Half-Elf as she tended the wolf. It seemed unnatural for her to befriend such a beast, and the animal's feelings of friendship seemed to be reserved for her alone. It growled and bared its teeth whenever anyone else approached, particularly Seeburn, who still smelled of its mate's blood.

Cassius took a quick tour around the camp, in case there were other foes out there in the night, while the others moved the fallen Goblins downwind of camp, lest the smell of death attract predators.

The Carthaginian returned with a small surprise: Two sacks of flour, half full, tied together to sling over someone's shoulders, or perhaps a wolf. Also a small sack of salt, a few blankets, an 8-pint cask of wine and a couple of half-empty skins, and some cook pots. Apparently the Goblins had been doing a bit of looting as they went, and had left their burdens in the brush before the attack.

"Well, breakfast is taken care of.", he laughed. "There was a bit of meat, but who knows where it came from. Goblins will eat anything."

The group settled down to finish their rest, leaving Appalenea and her new friend on watch, along with Penn, to keep watch on them.
***
The group rose before the sun, or at least they thought they did, and made a quick meal of biscuits and hard cheese, washed down with a bit of wine. The burdens were distributed, and they set off.

They began with the Roman march, 60 paces running and 60 walking, painfully aware that their comfort may have cost lives in the city, but the rest had been needed.

The mile-eating pace covered the distance quickly, and after the first hour Sylus had them swing off the road and follow a trail over the rolling hills.

The flow of the land wasn't harsh, but even so the pace took its toll, and after a few hours they again had to call a rest.

"I'm worried about the weather.", Sylus said, indicating a cluster of dark clouds against the slate-gray sky.

"All clouds are dark these days.", Appelenea advised. "Those are still thin. We won't get much rain out of them."

Still, the Ranger's concern added another burden of worry for them to carry, for even if they made it to the troops in time, a storm would render their efforts worthless. The Legion wouldn't get to the city in time to save it if they had to slog through mud.

But the weather was in the hands of Zeus. All their hands held was the parchment bearing the cryptic orders, and a bit of hope. They pressed on.

The wolf trotted along with Appelenea, but still growled at anyone else who got close, a fact that frustrated a certain Half-Satyr. While he knew that they had just met, and not under the best circumstances, he felt he had an obligation to at least try. But such an effort would have to wait until later. For now there were other things to occupy his mind.

The hills rolled by, and their eyes scanned the horizon for signs of an army, or an enemy.

"That bird is wrong.", Appelenea advised, indicating a solitary raptor soaring over the hills ahead. "See? He doesn't circle or stoop, and he flies too high to hunt for prey on the ground. That's someone's Familiar."

The prophesy proved true as they topped a rise, for a cluster of dark forms were just beginning their descent of the hill ahead.

"Orcs!", Seeburn called, drawing his bow. This was a full war party, and the companions were too tired to outrun them. They'd have to fight.
The leader of the foe called a halt to his followers, and raising his arms to the heavens he began to shout in a twisting tongue that sounded like neither Latin nor Greek, nor even the harsh tongue of the wild nomads.

"It's a spell of some kind.", Seeburn advised, a warning that drew odd looks from his companions.

"What do you know of magic?", Nedel asked the burly Barbarian.

"My father employed both Arcanists and Seers.", the Scott replied. "I studied some with them, and know the language."

"Hold your rage, and your weapons.", Appelenea advised. "Let them come closer, and they'll be ours."

And so they waited while the Orc Shaman roused his troops to a frothing fury, ready to chew on their own shields. Then, they charged.

" Root Bind", the Druid intoned, laying her hand gently on the ground.

And the earth responded to her call, the grasses rippling in a wind that wasn't blowing, seeking to grasp anything within their reach.

The war cries of the Vandals may have been legendary, as was the fear they inspired, but these quickly transformed to cries of surprise as their pace dragged to a halt.

Seeburn smiled as he finally let loose with a shaft, targeting not the Shaman but the bird that did his bidding. It cried out in pain and immediately altered course, heading away from the conflict.

The Shaman raged in impotent fury as Nedel also sent a bolt of magical energy at the hawk, wounding it further. The Shaman's rage translated into action as he found the strength to wrench his feet free, and he began the slow trek forward, murder on his mind.

Two of his soldiers managed to follow him, though being less consumed by hate they made the wiser choice and headed for the nearest edge of the grasping grasses.

Cassius laughed and sprang forward to meet the Orcish warpriest, obstructing his path just before he reached freedom. Weapons flashed, curses were hurled and blood flowed. Cassius' smile never faltered.

Seeburn and Sylus sent arrows like thunderbolts into the Vandals, dropping one after another in quick succession.

Penn, grasped his new staff in both hands and advanced quickly, then dove into the heavy brush. He was no warrior and he knew it. To his surprise, Appelenea stood her ground, drawing her bright sickle and commanding the wolf to stay back.

Marcus fired his crossbow, then charged forward towards one of the Orcs who had managed to free himself. The Orc had fixed his eye on the Druid, and his foul intent was clear.

"I am the son of Jupiter himself, and you will not pass!", the Cleric cried, leveling his crossbow directly between the Orc's eyes.

The dark one faltered for a moment, then smiled anew, for no quarrel had come forth. In his haste the Cleric had forgotten to reload, and now fumbled with the mechanism. The Orc's blade met the Cleric's body, and Marcus lay on the ground in a puddle of his own blood. "Where's your father now?", he gloated, preparing to finish his fallen prey.

"No!', came a cry from an unexpected source. Penn had dragged himself out of the bushes and was charging at the Orc, staff raised.

Penn struck him in the head with the staff, while Seeburn moved behind him. The Orc tried to call to the wolf, issuing orders in a harsh tongue, but the lupine warrior had only served Goblind before, and his prior master had had no love for the Orcish overlords. He stayed where he was.

Cassius found himself laughing at the Shaman's fumbling attempts to formulate a curse, while his own blade spoke with an eloquence of its own. Sylus continued to cut down any Orc who managed to advance even a single step. For all their fury, the Orcs weren't very effective in the fray.

Penn landed another blow, and Nedel finished the Orc off with the last of his magical energies.

Now the remaining Orcs sought only to flee, a strategy impeded by the tangling grasses just as effectively as their charge had been. But one managed to rip loose and place the field of entanglement between himself and the companions, and began to flee.

"No!", roared Seeburn, and charged after him, only to find that the grasses didn't care whose feet they grabbed. He managed to avoid falling, but his pursuit was done.

Sylus danced to the side, to get a clearer shot, and placed an arrow directly between the Orc's shoulder blades. He fell, and it was over.

The grasses relaxed their grip as the Druid's request, and a quick assessment was made of the fallen.

"I think that this one is still alive.", Cassius said, indicating the Shaman, whose chest still rose and fell, albeit slowly, as his life's blood dripped out.

Appelenea's attentions were reserved for the fallen among her own people, however, , and though she wasn't as skilled a healer as Marcus was, her magics proved sufficient to at least get the Cleric to open his eyes.
***
"We can't wait until he's ready to move.", Seeburn insisted, as they tended to Marcus wounds. "And that one will work to slow us down", he added, indicating their prisoner.

The Shaman glared at him with one baleful eye, the scarred socket on the other side of his face testimony to his dedication to the Vandal's dark deity.

"What would you do then?", Cassius countered, "run the rest of the way by yourself? That's suicide!"

"I'll run with him.", Penn volunteered. "I won't slow him down much, and I can help in a fight. A little."

So, with misgivings it was agreed, more because of the highland warrior's stubbornness than any real consensus. Seeburn and Penn would try to cover the remaining miles at a quick pace, while the others followed with the wounded, and their prisoner. He would be an untrustworthy slave, at best, but the Legion might be able to get information from him.
[FONT=&quot]***
Marcus tended to the wounds of his companions as the impatient Barbarian set off to find the Roman troops, with the Bard on his heels.

"I hope they make it.", Appelenea said, before turning her attention to the task of healing.

The prisoner spoke only curses and threats, boasting that he would feed on their entrails before this was all finished. He swore that he'd die before he served a pink-skinned master, but when the offer of a clean death was made, his determination faltered. Though he never agreed, he did rise when commanded, and followed as ordered.

With Sylus in the lead, they set off of a slightly weaving course, going around hills more often than over them, to avoid being spotted.

As they traveled, they could see dust to the north, and the occasional dark shapes in the sky, signs of the Vandal horde and their avian allies.

Finally they arrived at the Legion's camp, but the army was long gone. Seeburn and Penn had arrived over an hour ahead of the rest, and the command had responded with amazing speed. Within 15 minutes of the arrival of the orders, the soldiers had slung their packs, formed ranks, and marched off.

The camp slaves, cooks and other workers had been left to strike the tents and load the baggage, then follow at their own pace.

Even this operation was proceeding at remarkable speed, and the weary travelers could see that soon they would be left alone here.

Through the jumble and ruckus of the camp, they were directed to a senior slave, who in turn took them to the man left in charge of this operation. He was older, obviously past fighting age yet unwilling to leave the army just yet. He still wore the breastplate of a junior officer, a Legionaire's short blade at his side.

"Good to see that you made it through.", he said, upon seeing the orders they bore. "Your friends arrived some time ago. I'm not sure where they got off to. I'm sure you must be tired from your trek. I have space in the Mercurial wagons, if you need to rest as we go."

The group readily accepted the offer. The wagons would normally service the ill or injured, attended by the priests of Mercury, but since the army had been at rest for two weeks the only injuries they holy healers had to deal with were the occasional accident or brawl within the ranks. Riding there they could rest, and still catch up with the army.[/FONT]

 

[Greenfield]

***
"No, not that one. I need something straighter, and thick as my wrist the whole length.", Seeburn called, as he discarded the heavy branch that Penn had cut down.

"What's so special about these branches?", asked the Bard as he struggled to climb higher.

"The wood of the sour fruit is very springy, and bound with the ash it makes an exceptional bow.", replied the Barbarian, for about the fifth time. He suspected that the clever Fey was baiting him, asking questions to avoid honest work, but he refused to lose his temper. He continued scouting through the lemon grove, hoping to find more good wood.

He knew that skinning and shaving the branches would reveal hidden knots, splits or twists in the grain that would make them unacceptable. Out of a half dozen pieces, he might find one or two that were of the quality he needed.

Their game of hide and seek was interrupted by Sylus, who called to them, "The wagons are leaving! Grab your gear and get moving!"

Seeburn swore, and quickly grabbed up an armload of the green wood. He'd trim and sort it later.

Penn laughed at the sight of the burly Scott trying to sling his pack, hold the bundle of branches and run, all at the same time. He wouldn't have been able to catch the carts at all if Nedel hadn't asked the driver to slow the pace for them.

Then it was an easy afternoon is the caravan made its way down the road towards Athens.
***
By dark they had caught up with the army, and to the surprise of all, they made camp. They had barely covered a third of the distance back to the city, and seemed to be in no hurry. This was a far cry from the legendary swift sword of Rome, but the commanders all seemed pleased with their progress, and in good spirits.

The night passed easily enough.
***
"Who in Tartarus are you?", demanded the gristled old man, returning the Senator's glare without flinching.

"I am Denius Caesar, Seneschal of Rome, and I'm taking charge of this port!", thundered the Senator, his face flushing with rage. Why couldn't this old man see who he was dealing with?

The fact that the harbor was overflowing with people struggling to leave, each with a wild tale about why they were more important than the next may have had something to do with it. But really, the man should be able to discern quality when he saw it.

"If you're Caesar, then I'm Posiedon's grand-niece.", spat the old man. "Now, move back in line!"

Denius heaved a heavy sigh. "Let's go to your office, so I can show you my papers.", he suggested, gesturing towards the small building the Harbormaster used to keep records.

The two stepped inside, to handle matters privately. A few moments later Denius emerged alone, the baton of office in his hand.

"Women and children first!', he called in a voice that had once rallied crowds outside the Imperial Senate. "Patricians and their families, to the north end!"

And so, with the help of his personal guard, the Senator began the orderly evacuation of the city, as best as the limited shipping would allow. He reserved one of the larger personal vessels for the important people, such as himself, while using freight and fishing boats for the others. Each person was permitted to take what they could carry, and each was required to take a gallon of water. No food was issued, as the city would need that, and the boats could find a safe port within a day or two.

Tucked under a desk in a small office, an old man's body slowly grew cold.
***
"Can we hold them?", called General Markus to the commander of the city guard.

"I know we can.", the man replied. "I'm more worried about the temple types than my own men. They might break, if pressed."

"Then scatter them among the regular defenders.", the general suggested. "One temple archer for every three regulars."

"It will have to be one for two.", the commander replied. "With the folk of both Athena and Artemis, they have a good number."

And so it was done. The commanders, convinced that they could hold their own people at their posts, prepared for the relatively simple problem of facing the barbarian hordes that were massing outside the city walls.

And they were massing. Well out of bowshot they gathered, a howling horde of darkness. They came as if there were no end to their number, Orcs and Goblins, with Mountain Orcs, Ogres and even Giants among their company, they were a frightening force. Above, huge vultures circled, while winged Harpies waited eagerly to spring into the air. Then came the hard part. The waiting.

The Orcs were still arriving, still assembling throughout the day, their howling and chanting rasping at the nerves of the defenders. But they didn't attack.

Calvinus, familiar with this tactic, advised that they rest their people, manning the walls instead with slaves and servants, to maintain the appearance of strength. He knew that the Orcs would wait for sunset, when the darkness favored them.

And so it was done, with a scattering of officers to maintain order. It was a risky move, for if the Vandal horde decided to strike early, the courage of the slaves would almost certainly fail.

Then darkness came, and with it came the attack.



If the city could hold out through the night, help might arrive in time.
***
The sounds of battle were echoing across the woods through the night, yet the army didn't move. The hills were deceptive in the way sounds carried, for the battle was still miles away. Still, it wracked on the nerves of the companions to sit and wait instead of rushing to the fray.

The soldiers, however, had dug in a camp for a second night, and seemed quite relaxed as they bedded down.

"Commander Gaius", Nedel complained. "We made this journey in less than a day. Your troops took a day and a half, and here we are, less than an hour from the city, and we're stopping? While the battle rages?"

"Yes, Comus Nedel", the commander replied, with the air of someone talking to a child. At least he had gotten the title right. "Our orders are to allow the Vandals to strike at the city for a day and a night, then catch them between ourselves and the city when they have exhausted their first efforts. Their casters will be weak then, and ours will be at their peak."

Nedel felt like gnashing his teeth, but it would have done him no good. At least this man had gotten his title correct, instead of using the generic "Prince", which was often bandied about meaning "someone with a title". And so he and his friends spent another night, when they would rather be fighting. It galled him to stand idle while the heroic efforts he and his friends had made were made light of.
***
Dawn broke, as best it could, and the Orcs began to withdraw to their camps. They had fought through the night, and were satisfied with the results. Walls had been damaged, and their forces had won through to the river. Over the next few days they'd dam and divert it. A thirsty man fought poorly. A thirsty city fought not at all.

Then, behind them there was a flare of trumpets, and from the sky came the first cries of battle being renewed.

Striking from the clouds came the Roman Eagles, stooping upon the carrion birds of the Vandal force. With the power of the dive, they struck like the thunderbolts of Zeus, and fully half the vultures spiraled to the earth, trailing blood.

Then came the drums, and stepping from the woods came the Romans. They advanced in smart order, a formation over five thousand feet long, blade and shield in the front, followed by rank upon rank shield and spear. Their line appeared ragged at first glance, but a trained eye might have seen that they formed a regular pattern, like the teeth of a saw blade.

Behind the center of this great line stood a double rank of archers, over two thousand feet long, with officers and cavalry arrayed behind on horses.

Nedel had been able to secure himself a mount, for he needed to be able to see a target to direct his magic. Appelenea's presence had been requested by Commander Gaius, and she rode by his side.

And, to trumpet and drum, they advanced as one.

Sylus had chosen to place himself in the north end, far from the other archers. Cassius had placed himself south of the center, not in the formation but among the reserves that stood behind. Marcus stood near the commanders, ready to give healing or encouragement, and Penn took the mirror position to the other side of the command.

Seeburn stood among the archers, trying to make sense of the orders. An officer sat astride his horse, a long baton in his hand. Along the line, with each cohort of archers, rode similar officers with similar baton, and as they raised their baton, so raised a thousand bows. As he aimed his baton, so aimed a thousand arrows. And as he dropped his baton, so flew a thousand messengers of death. The slate gray sky darkened above the Vandals, and destruction rained down.

Some got their shields up in time, some small groups managed to form turtles, but for most there was no place to run, no place to hide. Quarrels poured down like sheets of rain, as volley after volley poured in, washing the enemy away in their flood.

Then, along the line, the crash of metal on metal as the two forces met.

Giants hurled boulders the size of large melon at the human lines, striving to slay officers or tear holes in the formation, but holes quickly closed.

Nedel saw his death coming for him from the sky, and turned to leap away. The rock came, and the horse beneath him screamed in shock and pain. Then it went silent. He found himself staggering, but surprisingly alive, and responded with bolt after bolt of sorcerous energy. He saw them strike, and he saw his target flinch in pain, but in the chaos of the battlefield he couldn't see if the opponent fell or not.

Sylus watched for any who seemed to be issuing orders, and slew them with his bow as soon as any began to rally near them. The troops nearby cheered every time one of the decorated Orc leaders toppled, and the commander of this cohort encouraged their good cheer. The damage to the Orcs' morale was worth more than the relatively small number slain, and they watched as the dark force drew towards the center of the line.

Cassius' great sword helped him fill holes in the lines as they formed, a barrier of steel that no Orc could cross, buying time for the Romans to recover from the giant's devastating missiles.

Marcus selected a tough looking group commander and made him an offer. "Would you like to match those giants, eye to eye?"

And as quickly as that, the Romans had a champion, dealing death with a blade of iron, leveraged from on high, with the strength and reach of a Titan. And the Orcs hesitated. It was the beginning of the end for them.

The spell didn't last long, but it did its job. The Orc commanders, trying to rally their troops, ordered a full charge at the Roman command.

To the surprise of many onlookers, the line of soldiers retreated before the force of this charge, stepping back in orderly fashion so as to retreat without breaking. Reserves filled the line where it grew thin, and still the Orcs pressed on and in.

Then the trap closed, as the long wings of the Roman formation swept forward and in, wrapping around the bulk of the Vandal force. And the commander called to Appelenea, and pointed. "There, now!"

The Druidess smiled, bent down, and laid her hand on the trampled earth. "Root bind", she said, almost softly amid the insane din of battle.

The center of the Orc formation froze as the ragged remains of the trampled field grasses reached up and took hold. Troops still pressed in from behind, forcing their companions into the enchanted earth, even trampling over their fallen companions before finding themselves also pinned.

The front line of the Orcs, suddenly finding that they had no one advancing to support them from behind, faltered, and began to fall back.

And then at was all but over. With chaos in their own ranks and a well ordered enemy closing in, the charge became a retreat, and then a route. Some few Orcs threw down their weapons to beg for mercy, only to be cut down by their own people for the show of cowardice. And still the Romans advanced, cutting and slicing with each step, their lines growing more dense as they closed.

Finally, the two jaws of the trap touched, and nothing living remained between them. It was over.
***
In the aftermath, it was estimated that perhaps the fifth part of the Vandal force had escaped, mostly scouts and camp support. Their losses were in the thousands, and the corpse pyres would burn for days.

The Romans had had nearly a thousand fall, but because they had never had to retreat, their wounded had been taken from the field for care. It would be weeks before all could be fully attended to, but their actual losses were minimal.

And the city of Athens was in a spasm of celebration for the next three days.