The Blood of a Princess

Chapter 16: Demons in the Clay

Autumn, 35 AD.

Rural Italia.

Fourth Watch.

He had slowed the horses to a trot, allowing the winded animals to rest, remaining in earshot of the gurgling stream as the night wore on. The cold night air cut through his cloak, reminding him of times past, of the long rides alongside his father and brethren, none speaking, yet sharing their thoughts.

He glanced back at the two Romans, wondering if they had ever enjoyed the beauty of darkness. The emperor's daughter seemed lost in thought, biting her lower lip as she slouched in the saddle, gazing at the mists that rose from beneath the hooves of her horse as the gravel began to give way to cooler clay. Behind her, Marcellus dozed like a true horseman, the reins of the baggage horse looped around his right forearm. 

If they indeed observed the magnificence of the night, they seemed to be ignoring it. Not that he blamed them, he thought. They had been riding since darkness had fallen, with only brief stops to water the horses or allow the small bands of soldiers to pass them by. They were all tired, even his own rear had begun to ache, but he dared not pause before crossing the marshes that lay several miles ahead, if Marcellus' map proved accurate. That would leave them crossing the open, difficult ground in daylight, and he had hoped to at least gain the woods on the far side before dawn. At least in that the princess had not questioned his judgment. Again he glanced back at her, knowing that she must be faring terribly in the night air, clad in her stola as she was. The cloak she had wrapped herself in offered little protection, and kept slipping from her shoulders. Even from this distance, he noticed the barely perceptible shudder that ran through her as she emerged from her silent reverie to adjust the cloak. 

Marcus sighed. The things humans did for love. 

But was he so different?

He did not know.

The trees had begun to thin, and beneath the hooves of his horse, water oozed into the tracks gently as they came closer to the marshes. On the left, the stream ran on, flowing from the north, parallel to the road that lay a few bowshots to the right. The mist had begun to thicken, swirling eerily in the moonlight, muffling the sounds of the night and bathing the trees in it's cold, damp embrace. 

No, he was not different, he thought, gazing into the clouds of moisture. There had been a time, an eternity ago, when he would have rent the heavens to be at the side of the one he loved. An eternity? He had counted the years as they passed, yes. Seven years, it had been, and as many months. Seven years since the legionaries had driven the spears through her breast. Or had it been his? Marcus was not sure. 

In the mists, he thought he could see the trembling youth he had been, cursing the gods with tears in his throat as the scout returned with the reports. Reports of a village that had been raped and pillaged, every woman used by the accursed Romans as their men were crucified. Reports of a raven-haired girl that had clung to life even after the ravages of the soldiers, though she had been run through with a pilum. The scout had shown her mercy, mercy she begged for. 

A touch on his arm jolted him back to the present, and Marcus spun to gaze into the eyes of the princess. And slowly he realized that he had stopped, gripping one of his swords, his knuckles white.

"Is everything okay?" She was glancing through the mist, searching for the source of his reaction. 

He released his grasp on the hilt of the sword, inhaled. "No- I mean, yes," he managed. "We are closer to the marshes, and anything can be hidden in the fog. I thought I heard someone."