Cor Tenebrarum: the conclusion

A Quintus Paulus Adventure

[Read Part I here]

Paulus rode with Curtius in his chariot. The two did not speak to each other, but Paulus studied the man who stood tall at the rail, his head held high in regal triumph.

They rounded a stand of trees, and Paulus spied Curtius’ camp, which appeared to be a standard castra: a sturdy wooden palisade with carefully spaced guard towers and a large heavy gate at the entrance.

A trumpet blast announced the return of the victorious heroes, and the gate swung wide to receive them. Within, Paulus had expected to see orderly rows of canvas tents with straight roads running the width and length of the encampment. But he saw none of the regimented layout universal in a Roman camp. Instead, tents and wooden huts were scattered in clusters throughout the grounds, and at the edge of the camp a stood a large, partially completed structure built from heavy logs and roofed with canvas sheets. It was not yet as tall as the nearby palisade, but it was clear to Paulus that when completed it would exceed it in height. Stables were built near the main lodge, and the horses from other chariots were being unhitched and led in.

Curtius’ driver pulled up to the entrance of the lodge, and the Paulus dismounted. Curtius stepped down after him.

Under any other circumstance, Paulus would have been direct with Curtius, sparing no time for the man’s delusions. However, at the moment he felt the need for a lighter touch. Despite his magnanimous demeanor, there was something about Curtius that Paulus feared: a madness that ran deep and dark below the surface.

“Good Alexander, I have traveled far risking perils to bring you back to Rome, to the city of your kin. The Senate wishes to hear of your campaign here and will no doubt grant you an ovation in celebration. Your father and your lady wife await your return.”

Curtius made no reaction indicating that he had even heard Paulus, who was sure that mention of the man’s family would elicit some kind of response.

“Come, Aeneas, there will be time enough later to speak of your city. But let us now feast and toast our victory.”

Joined by Roscius and Dubnorix, the party entered Curtius’ hall. As his eyes adjusted to the dim, Paulus could see that they were in a dining room of sorts, with a crude throne perched on a platform at the far end. The room was lit with lamps and braziers, and a low table had been erected around three sides of a fire pit. Rugs and cushions covered the floor. The canvas roof flapped in the breeze that strengthened with the setting of the sun.

Basins were brought out for the men to wash their hands and faces, while slaves washed their feet. Paulus, Roscius, and Dubnorix were directed to take their places at the table. A young woman was already reclining next to the host’s position. Dubnorix stiffened when he saw her. She gazed at the ground dejectedly.

She was clearly a local, with fierce bright eyes and light hair. She wore a white gown of high quality, but it bore stains and was torn and tattered at the edges from rough treatment. Her wrists were adorned with bracelets; her neck with fine necklaces and an iron collar.

A sturdy chain attached the collar to one of the posts that supported the roof.

The men sat, and Dubnorix leaned in close to Paulus.

“This woman is known to me,” he whispered hotly. “She is the daughter of my kinsman. She was promised to another, but was abducted before the marriage rites were to have taken place.”

Paulus looked at him. He understood the Gaul’s meaning.

“Promised to another, you say?”

“Yes,” replied Dubnorix through gritted teeth.

“Say nothing more.”

“I would have her returned to me.”

“You will hold your tongue, or we all will die here.”

Slaves brought food and wine to the table. Curtius spoke.

“Allow me to introduce my bride, the fair Helen.”

Curtius held out his hand to indicate the girl, who did not stir.

“Yes, a great beauty,” said Paulus. “But tell me, noble Alexander, why do you keep your wife in chains?”

Curtius leaned in, a glint in his eye.

“She is spirited and fickle, which is to be expected given her parentage. One day she embraces my knees in supplication, the next she spits on me and tries to run away. But she is pregnant with my son and must stay here in the safety of the citadel.”

“I see. A son, what a blessing. He will be your second son, if I’m not mistaken.”

Curtius’ face darkened.

“You are misinformed, good Aeneas.”

“My apologies. I was told that you had a wife and children back in Rome. No doubt it has been years since you have seen them.”

“No!” Curtius threw his cup against the wall. His guards shifted and looked at their commander nervously. “You confuse me with one of the Danaeans. The heights of Troy are my home.”

“Again, I meant no offense, good Alexander. Allow me to propose a toast to you and your brave men for coming to our aid on the field of battle this afternoon. To the men of Troy!”

“To the men of Troy!” echoed the men in the room. Curtius grinned.

“It was our honor. Those savage bandits that fell upon you were marching on our citadel to attack me for some imagined slight. The gods saw fit for you to halt their advance and let us mow them down with our chariots in the open field.”

“Divine providence, indeed. Have you always had such hostility from the local tribes?”

“Yes. Since we first arrived in this place. In fact, I have made a record of our dealings here—in verse of course. I would be honored if you read it during your stay here.”

From his position next to Paulus at the table, Roscius cleared his throat in the unsubtle manner of a career soldier.

Curtius gestured to a servant, who exited and returned moments later carrying a small bundle. He handed it to Paulus.

The captain unwrapped the package to find a thick scroll.

“I think you will find it most interesting, Aeneas. You will surely appreciate the description of my fair Helen and how she escaped from her chieftain father who had commanded her to marry another on pain of death. In the dead of night, she crossed a frigid river and nearly drowned. Such was her love for me.”

Paulus could feel Dubnorix simmering with rage behind him. He turned to glare at him in an effort to keep the peace, but the Gaul erupted.

“Liar! That woman belongs to me! You abducted her like a thief and skulked away like a dog.”

Curtius jumped to his feet.

“Who are you to insult me, Gaul!?” Curtius raged.

“I am Dubnorix. You stole my betrothed and defiled her. And I call you a coward.”

“A coward? A thief? Yet it is you who have stolen into my citadel to dine as a false guest.”

He narrowed his eyes and smiled grimly.

“But I see you now, son of Atreus. I see through your disguise, and those of your captains. So we shall fight. Clear the room and see that those two do not escape,” said Curtius, pointing at Paulus and Roscius. “They will have their turn to face justice as well.”

The soldiers ran from their places on the perimeter and moved tables and cushions out of the way. In a matter of moments the floor was cleared.

A servant brought Curtius his helmet, spear, and round shield to accompany the armor and sword he was still wearing.

“So that it cannot be said that my hospitality was insufficient, you may borrow whatever arms you require. It is nothing to me. Blood washes off, and holes can be mended.”

Dubnorix scowled and snatched a round shield from one of Curtius’ men. It was decorated with the head of a gorgon, but was of Gallic make; borne easily by the warrior. He drew his sword.

“This is all I require.”

Paulus wanted to intervene, but he knew that was impossible now. The better warrior would be left standing, and he knew not which outcome would be better for himself and his mission. He stepped out of the way, sidling up next to the heavy lodge door. Taking the cue, Roscius joined him. They were closely flanked by two stoic guards, who relieved them of their weapons.

Without warning, Curtius leapt at Dubnorix. He lunged from on high with his flashing spear, his greaves shining with reflected fire.

Dubnorix staggered backward, deflecting the heavy blow with his shield. The attack continued, and Dubnorix was on his on his heels. Splinters flew from the shield.

Curtius backed Dubnorix into the wall and he drew back his spear for a killing blow. The weapon shot through the air, its deadly tip lodging into the thick shield and piercing the skin of the Gaul’s arm. The spear shaft quivered while Dubnorix cried out.

With a stroke of his sword, he broke the ash shaft in two.

Curtius dropped the splintered pole and drew his own sword.

Now Dubnorix was on the attack. He drove forward, hacking and slashing. Curtius hid behind his shield as he gave up ground. His eyes were wide with rage and appeared to burn within his crested helmet. Pushed back to his throne, he regained momentum; the two men traded furious blows. Blood dripped from cuts that they inflicted on each other, but neither could find an adequate opening to finish the duel.

Paulus watched intently from the sidelines. The fighters were well matched in skill and they fought beautifully and ferociously. Not so deep down he was jealous of the opportunity to square off against a worthy opponent. Swords and shields clanged and banged. Then there was the rattle of a chain.

From her shrunken place in the shadows, Helen attacked.

She jumped on Curtius’ back and sank her teeth into his neck. Curtius cried out in pain and wheeled around to cast her off. The girl went flying and crashed down on the stone floor, skidding to a sudden halt when the chain connected to her collar caught the legs of a burning tripod that toppled to the ground. Sparks flew as the burning contents of the brazier spilled out.

Dubnorix pressed the attack. He lunged and parried and lunged again, finding the perfect opening to drive the point of his sword into Curtius’ thigh.

Curtius drove the rim of his shield into Dubnorix’ face, and the Gaul stumbled back, ripping his sword free of Curtius. Blood streamed from his mouth, and hatred from his eyes.

The room began to fill with smoke; the burning embers having found fuel on the perimeter of the room.

Dubnorix drove in again, berserk with rage. Curtius’ shield splintered and he fell to the ground. He called out, shrill with panic.

“Kill him! Kill him!”

Guards rushed from the walls. The men next to Paulus and Roscius hesitated, not sure whether to obey the new order. Paulus saw flames crawling up the walls and licking at the canvas roof. He sprang into action.

As the guard nearest him stood still—hands full of spear and shield—Paulus ripped the man’s gladius from its scabbard and rammed it into his groin, just below the cuirass. The man doubled over, pinching the blade. The other guard leveled his spear at Paulus and moved to strike, but Roscius butted him with his head and swung around the man to wrap his thick arm around his neck. The man kicked and sputtered as Roscius dragged him to the ground. Paulus wrenched his blade free of the first man and drove it into the heart of the second.

The Romans unbarred the door as the bloody fight continued at the other end of the hall. The door swung open and Paulus and Roscius ran, smoke and screams spilling out into the night behind them.

The fire was already racing through the camp. It jumped quickly from the lodge to the adjoining stables and to the palisade itself.

Paulus glanced around for the castra gate. It was distant and appeared to be closed.

“Let’s go!” he said to Roscius.

The alarm had been raised, and Curtius’ men ran about trying in vain to fight the fire.

“Kill them!”

A hoarse cry from the direction of the lodge caught the attention of several soldiers and caused Paulus to turn.

Curtius leaned heavily against the door post. His flickering silhouette was projected through the smoke.

Paulus counted four men forming up around them. Some had swords and armor, others only daggers. But they were Roman soldiers and would not be easy to defeat.

“We’ve had worse odds, eh Quintus?”

“We just need to break through. Charge the weakest, and I shall cover your back.”

Roscius nodded and scanned their enemies.

“Here we go,” muttered the marine.

Roscius lunged at the unarmored man nearest to gate. The soldier parried expertly with his dagger and moved in to pin Roscius’ sword between them. Turning nimbly, Roscius spun and caught man’s knife hand with his own free hand. He drove his sword into the man’s kidney.

Paulus fought off the two nearest men as they rushed to intercept. He could do no more than keep them at bay until Roscius joined in, stabbing one in the thigh, piercing an artery. One on one, Paulus deflected his opponent’s thrust and sent his own blade into the man’s neck. As he fell, Curtius’ man slashed at Paulus calf. The keen blade cut deep and Paulus dropped.

Roscius picked him up as they watched the fourth man retreat to summon help from the other soldiers who rushed about trying to suppress the blaze.

The fire was still spreading, and now  the stables were fully engulfed. The screams of doomed horses rose up over the roar of the flames. They stamped and bashed the walls with their hooves, but there was no one who could come to their rescue.

“Let’s go!” shouted Roscius.

The heat was excruciating, radiating off of the camp’s walls that were also catching fire. Paulus and Roscius staggered on. They coughed, choking on the thick smoke made it impossible to see more than a few paces ahead.

Paulus could hear their pursuers closing in behind them. Then, suddenly, they reached the gate. Paulus and Roscius lifted the massive timber that barred it and dropped the beam to the ground. The timbered door swung open and slammed into them, knocking them to the ground.

A volley of javelins shot through the opening. The cries of wounded men mingled with those of the horses in the stables.

Paulus looked up to see Curtius’ remaining men fleeing back into the camp. Then he saw Trebonius reach down a hand. Paulus took it and was heaved up to standing.

“We came as soon as we saw the fire. What happened in there, sir?”

“There will be time for tales once we are underway.”

“The ship stands ready, sir.”

“Very good. Return to the Osprey. But barricade this gate first.”

Paulus checked his wounded leg.

It will mend, he thought.

Then, leaning on Roscius, he started walking to the beach and the waiting Osprey.

A muted shout from behind caused Paulus to turn.

Only the highest points of the ramparts yet escaped the flames, and there, atop a corner tower, stood Curtius.

His clothes were soaked with blood. In one hand he held his gory gladius; in the other the mangled head of his Helen, her hair wrapped around his hand and forearm like tendrils of ivy on an abandoned sepulcher.

As flames crept up to his heights, he held sword and head aloft and shouted in what sounded like Greek to Paulus.

“To deos! To deos!”

Curtius screamed, as burning embers ascended to die in the night sky.

…

The sun was setting as the Osprey pulled up to the dock of the camp. Paulus disembarked and limped down the short straight road to the commander’s tent in the center. Torches were being lit against the encroaching darkness. As before, Paulus was announced and admitted to the praetor’s chamber, and as before the garrison commander sat at his desk. However, this time, the room had been cleared of its adornments and a few boxes were stacked in the corner. Paulus saluted.

“Captain Paulus, you’ve returned just in time. We break camp in the morning.”

The praetor craned his neck to look at the tent flap behind the captain and frowned.

“You’ve returned without Curtius, I see. Your mission was unsuccessful?”

Paulus thought hard about his response. On the return voyage, he had considered how much detail to give to the praetor. But he had not come to a decision. What should he say? That the man had gone mad, that he’d raped and murdered the daughter of a local chieftain, that he’d crucified his own men and the messengers that had been sent to him? To what end? So that this praetor could have a droll story to tell at a dinner party back in Rome? So that Curtius’ widow and children would have to endure the whispers and rumors about the man’s dishonor?

“No, sir. We found the outpost. Burnt.”

“What of Curtius?”

“Missing, presumed dead. The camp had been ransacked. The few bodies we found had been stripped and looted. None matched the description of Curtius, but it was hard to tell. We cremated the remains.”

“I see. It looks like you had some trouble with the natives,” he said gesturing to Paulus’ bandaged leg.

“Some. Your guide did not survive. Will that be all, sir?”

The praetor seemed lost in thought.

“What? Oh. No, that’s all. Just give me your written report in the morning. I shall need to inform the Consul.”

“Yes, sir.”

Paulus saluted and left.

When Paulus returned to the Osprey, the men were disembarking and preparing to make camp for the night. They made way for him on the gangplank. Once aboard he told his orderly to fetch something for him and then he took his place on the rear deck.

A moment later the boy arrived with the parcel wrapped in waxed cloth. Paulus opened it and unrolled a few columns of Curtius’ manuscript. A voice spoke behind him.

“What did you tell the praetor?”

It was Roscius.

“The only thing I could, Titus. That we found the outpost destroyed and everyone dead or presumed so.”

“Then our work here is done? When do we return to the fleet?”

“Immediately. We’ve got a full moon. Call the men back to stations and tell Trebonius and Crassus to prepare to get underway.”

Paulus wrapped the scroll back in the cloth and tossed it in the river.