Author: Kirk Straughen
Synopsis: Intrepid explorers discover the remnants of ancient Rome in this exciting lost race adventure story. Join them at your peril!
Preface
The setting for this story is Tuscany, Italy. However, it is not the Tuscany we are familiar with, but an alternative reality where geography and history are slightly different from that which we know.
Thermal springs do exist in Tuscany, one of which is the hot springs of Petriolo, located in the Ombrone Valley. Lago Dell’ Inferno (Lake of Hell) and its island, however, are entirely fictional, existing only in the realm of unrealized possibilities.
It was April, 1905 in the province of Sienna. Thomas Swift stood among the cypress trees and cork oaks whose spreading boughs shaded him from the the noonday warmth of the Tuscan springtime. The cool shadowed silence was broken only by the sighing of a gentle breeze that whispered through the forest. The playful zephyrs tousled the young Englishman’s thatch of chestnut hair as he reflectively gazed across the boiling and steamy expanse of Lago Dell’ Inferno.
The rural landscape was very picturesque. To the east was the volcanic cone of Mount Amiata, and to the southeast the rolling hills of Albegna and Fiora. Tree lined dirt roads cut through the green forests, which separated the various farms and their charming rustic houses from each other, some homes dating back to Medieval times.
But the Arcadian scenery, beautiful though it was, was not the focus of Swift’s inquisitive gaze. He had wandered down from the main encampment, camera in hand, and now stood before the goal of the British Geographical Society’s expedition. For a moment his eyes took in the fabulous expanse of the boiling lake as his gaze swept over its heaving mineral coloured and highly acidic waters. Swift’s vision then came to rest on the mesa-like island that rose from the turgid clouds of sulfurous steam that writhed and swirled in thick profusion upon the vast surface of Lago Dell’ Inferno.
Towering cliffs encircled the isle like the ramparts of a monolithic fortress. The lower slopes of its rugged shore glittered with sulphur crystals, startlingly yellow against the midnight rock, which was capped by emerald verdure at its flat pinnacle - flourishing greenery saved from the noxious vapors by dizzy height.
Swift caught the stink of toxic hydrogen sulphide which the boiling milky blue waters emitted in voluminous quantities. Even here, a hundred yards from the lake’s mineral encrusted shoreline the stench was almost overpowering, making it impossible to approach much closer.
Lago Dell’ Inferno was a thermal wonder of the natural world, the largest of its kind in existence, many times the size of Frying Pan Lake in New Zealand. It was roughly circular, and had a surface area of approximately 20 thousand square miles. The lake’s island was called Incudine Del Diavolo (Devil’s Anvil) due to its shape. It was located approximately in the centre of Lago Dell’ Inferno, and was about 8 square miles in size.
The lake‘s existence had been known since ancient times. Martial, the Latin poet from Hispania, spoke of it in his famous epigrams. The Romans regarded it with superstitious awe, believing it to be a portal to the underworld of Orcus. Later Christians, no less credulous, regarded it as the abode of devils.
Of course in this modern age of 1905 the explanation for the boiling waters was understood in terms of natural geological activity. But this didn’t lessen the mystery of Incudine Del Diavolo, the lake’s solitary island. What strange things awaited discovery on that enigmatic shore? It lay surrounded by age old civilization, and yet knew not the tread of human feet. Despite its nearness it was as mysterious and as remote as Africa or the depths of the Amazonian jungle, isolated from the world by an impassable moat of boiling corrosive fluid and toxic gases.
Swift raised his camera, a Kodak No. 1A folding type, model B. It was a going away present from his parents, John and Ann. He eagerly began taking photographs of the lake and island - mementos he could share with them upon his return to their country house in Dedham, Essex. At 19 Swift was the youngest member of the expedition and assistant to professor Edward Miller, its leader.
Miller was a lecturer in zoology at Oxford, and Swift was one of his students. The savant had offered his pupils the opportunity to accompany him on the expedition, and Swift had been the successful applicant thanks to his knowledge of boating.
“I see our unofficial chronicler is hard at it. Save some film for when we land on the island, lad.”
Swift turned at the sound of the booming voice and saw a middle aged stocky man approaching. He had a beard like a lion’s mane and wild ginger hair in the process of receding. Large blue eyes peered out from behind thick spectacles giving the fellow an owlish demeanour, but not to the point of stuffiness.
Swift smiled as professor Miller drew near. “I thought I’d slip away and take some photos. Are we ready to get under way so soon?”
“You’ve lost track of time, my boy,” replied professor Miller with mild reproach. “Come along. As you say we are ready to go.”
Swift, somewhat embarrassed at his tardiness, quietly followed the professor as the savant retraced his steps towards the expedition’s encampment. They arrived at the site, which was situated well away form the noxious lake, after about ten minutes of easy walking.
The five Packard model TA trucks had been unloaded and the tents erected. Men were going about other tasks with quiet efficiency. John Napier, second in command, stood by the 20ft motor launch, taking advantage of the delay by reinspecting the acid proofing on her hull and the checking of the modified standard diving dress that six men wore. Napier looked up and saw the professor and Swift approaching. His brow furrowed with disapproval as his eyes alighted upon the savant’s assistant.
“Come on Swift,” he said with grumpy impatience. “Get your gear on and be quick about it. You’ve caused us enough delay wandering off like a gawking tourist. Need I remind you that this is a scientific expatiation, not a bloody holiday.”
His face burning with the rebuke, Swift silently donned the baggy canvas suit that, along with its globular brass helmet, had been acid proofed. Hoses, usually connected to an air pump, were instead attached to a cumbersome wooden box strapped to his back - an air purification system that would filter out the boiling lake’s toxic and acidic fumes. Assistants tightened the wing nuts on Swift’s helmet and connected its hoses to the air purifier. Everything checked, he was pronounced ready to go.
Professor Miller, now also clad in the same protective gear, stepped to his side. Both watched as the six other men, similarly dressed, grasped the trailer on which the motor launch rested and began to laboriously push it towards the lake’s shore. The professor and Swift followed.
The boat, equipment already aboard, was soon launched upon the boiling water of Lago Dell’ Inferno. Swift waded out, his feet crunching through the mineral crust and then sinking knee deep into the boiling highly acidic liquid. His heart quickened with a mixture of trepidation and excitement as thick steam enveloped him. Though protected there was danger nonetheless. Heat from the fuming milky blue water penetrated his suit. His protective clothing would not allow prolonged contact with boiling acid, and under its burning spur he quickly scrambled aboard the rocking craft.
Professor Miller soon followed. The launch crew gave the boat a final push, sending it out onto the lake, then retreated to the safety of solid ground. Swift, now at the helm, started the engine and the vessel moved out onto the lake under its own power. He turned and, along with professor Miller, waved farewell to their companions.
Thick roiling steam caused visibility to drop sharply as they motored into it, and in but moments the waiving men on the land were lost from sight. Swift focused his attention on the towering mesa-like island that rose out of the toxic mist, its shore shrouded in eddying vapour. It seemed to float on clouds, mysterious and enigmatic in its aloof isolation from the mundane world.
The professor touched his helmet to swift’s and spoke. His voice had an odd, echoing quality as it was transmitted by the contact.
“Steady, lad. This is an expedition, not the St. George Sailing Club race of 1903.”
Swift grinned sheepishly and eased off the throttle. The craft’s speed was evidence of his eagerness. He had never been beyond England’s shores. This was a grand adventure in an exotic land. They’d disembarked from Osprey, the passenger-cargo ship at Livorno, the nearest port to Florence, and then journeyed by road to that city. The two days they’d spent there preparing for the final thrust of their trek had been marvellous (especially the view of Florence from the Piazzale Michelangelo), and now an even greater adventure awaited. They would be the first people to set foot on an unexplored land.
Of course the professor, as leader of the expedition, reserved the right of being first ashore. Nonetheless, Swift felt privileged to accompany him, even though his role at the moment was more ferryman than anything else, for his task was to transport other members of the team and their equipment to the island.
As the motor launch thrust its bow through the swirling steam it began to grow uncomfortably hot. The cumbersome suits had been covered in gold leaf to reflect the heat, but the material didn’t breathe and so trapped heat as well. Swift gritted his teeth. His body had begun to itch in a dozen places he couldn’t scratch. He suppressed an oath and focused on the looming island. He estimated that in another ten minutes they would make landfall.
Time passed. The island rose further out of the swirling steam. Its cliffs now towered over them like the curtain wall of a giant’s fortress. The mist parted, disclosing a black stony beach encrusted with sulfur crystals and other minerals. Swift eased off the throttle and cut the engine. Their craft glided into the shallows under its own momentum. The anchor was dropped and brought the vessel to a halt before rough rocks could damage the acid proof coating on her hull.
Swift took a sounding with a lead line. It was impossible to gauge depth by eye as the milky blue water hid the bottom. Despite this his judgement had been good. They were about 15 feet from the shore and the water half a fathom deep. The young man informed his mentor that he could safely disembark.
“Good work, lad,” replied the savant. “I’ll do a little exploring. Unload our supplies. I’ll meet you back here soon, and then you can head back for the others.”
The professor broke helmet contact and clambered over the side. Swift watched him wade ashore and vanish into the steamy mist. Now that he was here on the isle’s shore the young man’s enthusiasm had dampened a little. Up close the towering black cliffs and the swirling steam lent an eerie otherworldly quality to the scene that sent a shiver down his spine. Although not superstitious he could easily understand how the ancients thought this place the gateway to the underworld and the abode of devils.
Swift began to unload the boxes of supplies and mountaineering equipment to be used in the ascent. The launch was small and couldn’t carry much in the way of men and equipment. He’d have to make at least ten trips to get all the team to the isle. Unloading proved arduous work. The suit was hot and stifling, this added to by the boiling liquid whose heat was only partially blocked by the insulating fabric of his gear. The boxes were few in number but heavy, and wading through knee deep water didn’t help, but at last the difficult task was done.
Swift, hot and sweating, stood on the gravelly shore catching his breath. He looked around for the professor, but couldn’t see him. The steam reduced visibility to about 40 feet and the moisture beaded face-plate of his helmet restricted vision further. The young man began to worry. Unloading had taken a good 15 minutes. The savant was a punctual man. He should have been back by now. Perhaps some mishap had occurred. There was no point in shouting the professor’s name, or the professor crying for help. In both cases the helmets they wore would muffle the sound. Returning to the main camp would take too long, especially if the professor was badly hurt.
The fabric of the suits was tough, but a fall on jagged rocks might tear it, and the air filters, though tested, might fail. These alarming thoughts, and visions of the helpless man lying injured, spurred Swift to act.
Quickly, Swift moved off in the direction he last saw the professor take along the pebbly strand, which was about 40 feet in width. The worried youth had been walking for less than a minute when he saw what he thought was a figure approaching through the shrouding steam.
Eagerly, Swift quickened his pace with relief, then halted with a gasp of alarm and horror as drawing nearness resolved the dim figure’s true form. The thing was man-like, but it wasn’t the professor. Its head was bulbous and rose to a peak. A snout like structure resembling an elephant’s trunk protruded between two large glassy eyes and hung to its waist. Its hairless leathery skin was baggy like that of an elephant and of a pale waxy colour.
The thing halted as its glittering eyes fell upon him, unblinking as those of a serpent and as sinister. It stood staring at Swift, wreathed in eerie mist. Its pallid skin, wet with moisture, gave it the slimy look of a maggot. The young man nearly choked on his own horror as his mind gave way to supernatural dread, then two more of the monsters emerged from shrouding steam, adding to his wild alarm.
The first creature pointed aggressively at Swift, then the vile trio charged their victim in a brutish rush, and in mere seconds the young man was fighting for his life against what seemed the very spawn of Hell.
Swift, with a wild yell, swung at one of his rushing opponents. His crashing fist sent the horror staggering back, but the thing’s companions fell upon him in a fury and fiercely felled him to the ground. The young Englishman was down but not out. He fought with all his might, his brawny strength fueled by wild fear.
He flung off one monster, slammed an elbow into the other and sent it crashing to the stony earth. Swift scrambled to his feet. The first horror he had smitten came at him again in a wild charge. Swift struck at it with a savage blow, but the creature ducked his wild swing. It caught him about the waist, hoisted him into the air and hurled him to the earth in a brutal body slam that drove the breath from his lungs.
The three horrors piled on him in a smothering mass of grasping hands and pinning slimy weight. Swift tried to fight, but it was hopeless. The wind had been knocked out of him. He was as helpless as a babe against the combined strength of his monstrous opponents. They rolled him onto his stomach and securely bound his hands behind his back with tough cord. In but moments he was utterly helpless.
Swift’s heart hammered frantically as he was hauled to his feet. He was in the grip of the unknown and the horror of it came close to overwhelming him. The young man stared at his hideous captors, wild eyed and panting, his stomach churning with revulsion. The creatures gazed back at him, their large glassy eyes extremely unsettling.
Swift, with great effort forced down his raging terror. Thrashing mindlessly about like a snared animal wouldn’t help. Now, in better control of his emotions, the young man gasped in amazement as he looked more closely at his strange foes. Their eyes were glassy because they were indeed glass. Before, shrouding steam, wild fear and the restricting face-plate of his helmet had prevented Swift from seeing clearly the true nature of his opponents.
Now, he saw that they were humans clad in some kind of primitive protective clothing. Their bulbous heads were in fact hoods akin to that of a medieval executioner. Glass discs set in the hoods protected their eyes. The elephant-like trunk appeared to be a primitive filter. The baggy skin was an all in one leather suit with gloves and boots, and its pallid appearance was due to the beeswax that acid proofed it and also formed a gas tight seal.
Relief flooded Swift with the realization that his captors were human rather than preternatural monsters. Of course the young man realized he was still in danger, but the threat now lacked the tinge of supernatural horror that had fueled his wild panic. Swift’s thoughts shifted. Had his foes captured the professor also? Were they members of another expedition? It seemed unlikely given their hostile behaviour. The young man was left with more questions than answers.
Swift’s speculations were cut short as his captors roughly began to haul him up the beach. He was still quite weak and had to be supported. Escape was impossible at the moment, so he decided to bide his time and hope an opportunity would arise to rescue professor Miller, for by now he was sure that the savant had fallen victim to these unknown people.
After about ten minutes of walking other figures emerged from the swirling steam, and as they drew near Swift saw that the five were clad in the manner of his captors, and at their feet lay professor Miller, bound and helpless. The savant struggled to his knees at the sight of his assistant.
“So, they got you too, my boy,” he worriedly exclaimed. But his voice was muffled by his helmet, and Swift heard not his anxious words.
Their captors hustled the two Englishmen along the beach, pausing only long enough to gather up the small bags containing the sulfur they’d been gathering, the element being used in medicinal preparations.
Swift saw his captors were in a hurry. Their primitive suits only gave about 90 minutes protection from the hostile environment, but he didn’t know this at the time, nor the fact that his foes were nearing the limit of their exposure.
Another ten minutes of rapid walking brought them to a natural pathway carved in the towering cliffs by thousands of years of weathering, starting from the base and climbing to the isle’s utmost height. Swift gasped in amazement as he was forced up the way. The trail was worn smooth by the passage of untold feet, which attested to the great antiquity of its use. Also, there were rougher sections that clearly had been chiselled to ease traverse. His earlier speculation that his captors were members of a rival expedition was thrown into utter disarray.
The climb was arduous, and the hot and bulky suits didn’t help, but at last they emerged into air free form the reek of brimstone and gained the isle’s flat summit. Here, they paused to catch their breath, and as they did so their captors removed the trunk-like gas masks that they wore.
Swift saw their faces were broad and swarthy in appearance. Jet black curly hair crowned their heads. Their eyes were dark brown and their noses prominent. The men disrobed further and the young man saw that beneath their suits his captors stocky muscular frames were clad in white linen tunics and shorts secured by a drawstring. Their feet were shod in robust leather sandals thus completing their simple apparel.
Professor Miller touched his helmet to that of his assistant as their captors stored the protective clothing in a small stone hut nearby.
“They’re Romans,” he observed, his voice tinged with amazement. “Look at their features, the way they’re dressed. Good Lord, my boy. Do you realize what this means? A lost race. What a discovery! How is your Latin?”
Swift was about to say that it was adequate, but his reply was stalled by the quick return of their captors. Both men tensed, the excitement of their discovery dampened by the unknown fate, quite possibly unpleasant, that awaited them at the hands of these time lost people.
The Romans surrounded the explorers, their faces set in expressions that varied form wary curiosity to open hostility. The captors began to explore their captives modified diving gear. After a few moments of experimentation they had the wing-nuts undone and the helmets removed. For a moment the men of the past and present gazed at each other in speculative silence. The tableaux was broken as professor Miller haltingly spoke in Latin.
“We come in peace… We are explorers… We are harmless.”
“You look like barbarians,” said one whose haughtiness marked him as leader. “You speak Latin like barbarians,” continued the belligerent fellow. “The same barbarians who overran the Empire. They were not harmless. Now, how many others are there of you? How did you cross the steaming lake? Be quick and truthful with your answers or it will go badly for you.”
“We are not barbarians,” interjected Swift. “We…”
“Lies,” shouted the Roman as he stepped forward and struck Swift with such force that the young man was driven to the loamy soil.
“I am Magnus Cassias, the king’s personal physician,” he announced with significance. “Do you take me for an uneducated savage! Only here on New Rome does culture exist. Civilization was destroyed by barbarian hordes incapable of creating anything akin to the glories of the Empire. You are my prisoners, slaves,” he sneered. “Since you utter nothing but lies you will remain silent unless spoken to,” continued the arrogant aristocrat. “Atticus, the king, has methods that will soon straighten your crooked tongues.”
Cassias turned to his assistants and spoke with swift authority. The men grasped Swift and the professor, and the bound captives were roughly forced upon a trail that snaked its way between the densely growing trees that fringed the isle’s entire summit.
There was little that either Englishman could do at the moment. Fearing further violence both kept silent. It seemed their only hope was to convince king Atticus of their benevolent intentions. But if the physician’s attitude was typical of these people, then things looked bleak indeed.
Swift turned his attention to their surroundings, partly out of curiosity, partly to distract his mind from a multitude of frightening thoughts. The fringe of trees consisted of cypress and cork oaks typical of the region. The path branched here and there, but they seemed to be keeping to the main route.
After about a minute’s walk they came upon a substantial fort hidden among the trees - a square stone structure of high crenelated walls and towers at each corner, and a wolf’s head carving above its massive gate. Here, they stopped while Cassias informed the commander of the garrison, Titus Decimus, of events. Said officer, a stocky bandy legged fellow came hurrying out accompanied by a hundred tough looking warriors and looked the prisoners over. Grim faced he and his men then rushed off to guard the stairs against possible invasion as military runners dashed away, carrying the alarm to the other garrison of the island and the king.
Cassias and his party, with an escort of ten soldiers from the fort, continued on its way. Shortly, they emerged from the trees into open cultivated farmland consisting of wheat-fields, extensive orchards of figs, pomegranates and olives. Vineyards were also in evidence as well as beehives.
The fields were being worked by what appeared to be completely nude child laborers. Swift gazed in outrage at the sight. Then, when he got closer as he walked along the dirt road that bisected the fields, he saw that the slaves (for that is clearly what the were) were in fact diminutive Roman adults of both sexes, each comparable in stature to the pygmies of Africa, for none were taller than four and a half feet.
His shock clearly showed. He had expected the rest of the population to be much like his captors in appearance. Cassias, who had been surreptitiously observing him smirked and condescended to explain:
“We breed them that way, and for docility as well. Slaves who are small in size and placid are easily controlled. It’s a pity we couldn’t do the same to you barbarians.”
Swift shuddered. The history books spoke of the glories of ancient Rome, but many glossed over the cruelty of the Empire. Roman civilization was founded on the inhumanity of vicious bondage, and now the young man was seeing it first hand. He glanced at professor Miller and saw that he was similarly disturbed at the thought of people being treated like livestock.
They continued on, eventually reaching the edge of the cultivated area where the barracks of the slaves were situated. These were low graceless buildings of stone with high slit windows and a narrow bronze bound door at either end.
Here, the land rose, and on the terraced hillside stood the thirty proud villas of the Roman aristocracy, overlooking their lands and their chattels with a dominating view. With their graceful marble pillars, courtyard gardens and fountains, mosaic floors and lavish furnishings, they were a sharp contrast to the prison-like structures of the slaves.
The dirt road ended at the foot of the acclivity and was replaced by a paved tree lined avenue. They ascended the way, passing the walled homes of the aristocracy with their courtyard gardens. Swift caught snatches of conversation and laughter. From other homes drifted the sound of stringed instruments. From another came the tortured scream of a woman followed by the cruel guffaw of men, hinting that darker passions were also in play.
The young man felt sick at the thought of what the villa’s thick walls might be hiding. They moved on, and although the pitiful cry faded to silence with distance it yet remained in Swift’s memory for many hours.
It was now noon, and being hora sexta (siesta time for the nobility) the switchback avenue, but for a few diminutive slaves going about their errands, was largely free of pedestrian traffic. Thus they made good time, and within fifteen minutes had reached the summit where an even grander home had been constructed.
It was at least three times the size of the other villas, which were by no means small. It, too, was surrounded by a high stone wall, fortress-like in appearance, that hid its decadent opulence from the prying eyes of commoners.
Swift and professor Miller were hustled to the rear entrance of the sprawling building. Here a guard, drowsily leaning on his spear, was kicked to full alertness by Cassias. The hapless fellow paled at the sight of the physician and his escort, withered under the noble’s reprimanding glare, and hastily let them pass within the villa.
Stepping across the threshold the prisoners found themselves in that part of the structure where the kitchen, domestic slave quarters and storage rooms were located. It was clean, well lit and very utilitarian, and that was the best one could say of it.
The Englishmen, bypassing the hive of activity that was the kitchen, were forced down a passage lined with storage rooms on the right and windows on the left. They halted by a door. Cassias removed a key from a nearby hook. He then turned to the prisoners and spoke.
“This is the hour of rest for the nobility. The king usually sleeps, but the runner would have awoken him by now with the unpleasant news of your arrival. Atticus will already be in a foul mood. Do not provoke him further by lying. These ten warriors I shall leave to guard you. Escape is impossible. I go now to inform the king of your incarceration. Our ruler will question you, and by torture if necessary.”
Cassias unlocked the room. The prisoners were swiftly and violently thrust within the windowless cell. The helmets of their suits were tossed in after them. The door was quickly slammed and locked, and with its closing they were plunged into darkness with the blacker threat of torture hanging over them.
A voice cut through the blackness of the prison, the unexpected sound causing both men to start.
“More unfortunates to share my cell. Who else has offended Atticus then? Come closer. My eyes are old and the darkness of this wretched room most deep.”
Swift’s youthful vision adjusted more quickly to the gloom, and by the feeble light that seeped beneath the door he saw a man huddled in one corner of the room.
“We’re explorers from a distant land,” he said as he approached. “We mean no harm, but so far no one will believe us.”
“Barbarians,” exclaimed their fellow prisoner with a mixture of excitement and curiosity.
“So we’ve been told before,” said professor Miller heavily. “But considering our treatment I could say the same of those who captured us.”
Their cellmate nodded gravely and introduced himself as he rose: “I am Julius Aurelius, the philosopher.” The sage, a man in his mid sixties with distinguished features and flowing beard, ran his inquisitive eyes over his companions and noted what they wore and the helmets that had been tossed within the cell.
“Is that strange clothing designed to protect you from the poisonous air of the lake?” he asked as he began to free the professor from his bonds. “If so then you barbarians have advanced considerably since the sack of Rome.”
“It is and we have,” answered Swift. “You’ll be amazed when we tell you of the outer world, and the civilizations that have arisen from the ashes of Rome’s empire. I thought our equipment would have been sufficient evidence to convince Cassias that we’re not savages.”
“Ah, so it was the physician who captured you. Cassias is well educated,” continued Aurelius. “But like the other nobles he is blinded by deep prejudice. They are taught from childhood of the glories of the Empire, and how its wonders were trampled by the ignorant to mud. Neither of you are Roman. Therefore, in the eyes of the aristocracy you are savages. It will be difficult for you to convince them otherwise, such is the blindness of indoctrinated bias. There, the final knot is undone. You are free, at least from the ropes.”
“Thank you,” replied professor Miller as he began to remove his hot and cumbersome diving gear. “You are obviously far more open minded than your countrymen. How is it that a man of your standing finds himself in prison? How did your people come to be here?”
Aurelius smiled as he turned his attention to the cords that bound Swift. “As to your first question: I am a philosopher, and philosophers are in the habit of questioning things, challenging assumptions. My offence was to press Atticus to introduce reforms, to make the treatment of slaves humane, to outlaw accepted cruelties and promote justice.
“I was his tutor, but I failed in my attempts to transform a callow youth into a thoughtful man,” admitted the philosopher, bitterly. “Like the other nobles his mind is mostly occupied with how best to fill his belly and the loins of pretty slave girls. Deeper contemplation is beyond him.
“As to your second question: At the time of the barbarian invasions, and situated not far from the lake, was the villa and farmlands of a wealthy senator named Felix Sulla. He owned a Greek slave - Lysander by name. This Greek was an exceptionally clever fellow. It was he who saw this island as a potential refuge from the depredations of the barbarian hoards, and so set his keen mind to devising a means to breach the barrier of the boiling lake. He succeeded, as you can see, and convinced his master and his household to take refuge here. I and my people are the descendants of those first colonists. Ah, the knot has parted. You are also free.”
“Not entirely,” whispered Swift, aware that the guards outside the cell might overhear them. “From what you’ve told us it is clear we must escape. Is there any chance of that?” he continued as he,too, began to remove his protective clothing.
“I, too, desire my freedom. Now that I have companions in misfortune to assist me, then perhaps…”
A key grating in the lock halted further conversation. The door was thrust violently open. Hard faced guards, alert for the slightest hint of trouble stormed within the cell. Swift and Aurelius were shoved brutally aside. Professor Miller was seized and dragged protesting from the prison. The door was slammed behind him.
Swift struggled up from the floor where he had tumbled. The rapidity of unexpected events and the heavy fall had left him dazed. The young man gathered his scattered wits. He cast off the hindering diving gear, stumbled to the door and threw his brawny frame desperately but uselessly against it.
“Professor Miller, he cried out in consternation and fear for his companion. Grim silence was his only answer. He spun round wildly.
“Where have they taken him? What will they do to him?” he burst out.
The philosopher motioned him for calmness and silence. Swift, with difficulty, managed to bridle his emotions. The young man realized he needed to think calmly and clearly. Wild outbursts, though understandable, wouldn’t solve anything.
Seeing Swift was calmer, Aurelius beckoned him closer. The philosopher spoke in hushed tones to the young man when he was near.
“He has been taken for questioning. They will interrogate you separately to see if your answers are identical. But there is a chance of saving your companion. Hear me out,” he continued, forestalling the flood of questions. “I have made a study of our history. The nobles of today concern themselves more with fleshy pleasures than learning. Perusing forgotten dusty books in cobwebbed cellars is not for them.
“I discovered the plans for this building that show its hidden passageways,” Aurelius explained, pointing to a bracket on the wall from which an oil lamp was once suspended. “If we turn that a certain way it will open a concealed door. But the mechanism is ancient. It is stuck and my old limbs have not the strength to move it. But you are young and strong, and with your help we might succeed. It is our only hope of gaining freedom so we can rescue your companion.”
“Then let us set about the task at once,” Swift eagerly replied as he quickly stepped towards the object of discussion.
Both men firmly grasped the bracket. “One full turn left.” Explained Aurelius quietly. “Two full turns right, then a quarter turn left. These rotations must be exact or we will fail.”
Both men set their muscles to the task. Swift silently cursed, sweated. He exerted his strength to the utmost as did his companion. The young man felt the bracket move slightly. Encouraged, he threw his might against the recalcitrant mechanism. It grated, the noise alarmingly loud in the confines of the prison.
Swift cast a tense look at the door. If the guards heard it would be their sure undoing. Slowly, carefully, they rotated the bracket through the stages of its combination. The final turn was made. The guards remained undisturbed and Swift breathed a sigh of considerable relief. But his elation was short lived - a section of the floor in one corner of the cell dropped open like a trapdoor. It struck the hidden shaft with a boom loud enough to wake the dead.
Someone shouted from without. The cell door was quickly opened and a guard rushed into the room. He halted in surprise, eyes wide at the sight of the prisoners standing by the open way. Other warriors poked their heads in the cell. An oath from one broke the frozen moment. Like a pack of hounds they charged the escapees.
“Follow me,” shouted Aurelius as, ignoring the ladder, he jumped into the shaft.
Swift quickly followed the philosopher’s example. The Englishman’s feet struck bottom some seven feet below. Another body crashed down upon him - a warrior who had also dived within the open way. Both men fell heavily to the floor, wrestled desperately.
Aurelius jerked a lever down. The trapdoor, powered by counterweights, swung closed, slamming in the faces of the warrior’s companions. The secret passage was plunged into utter darkness. Swift felt brutal hands clamp about his throat in a crushing strangle hold. He groped for his opponent’s face, thrust his fingers desperately into his foe’s eyes.
The man screamed. Swift broke his loosened grip, punched him in the throat. The enemy uttered a gurgling cry. Swift clambered onto his foe, got a knee across his neck and placed his brawny weight upon it. The guard thrashed about. His struggles grew weaker, stilled.
In the darkness the sound of flint striking iron added to the noise of Swifts heavy breathing. Illumination flared as a torch caught alight. The philosopher stood above his companion, his flambeaux shedding light upon the scene. Swift turned his face away from the the man he’d killed, trying to block out the sickening sight of the corpse’s staring eyes.
The philosopher knelt and placed a hand on the young man’s trembling shoulder. “Think of the living,” he quietly said. “We must press quickly on and rescue your friend before the door above can be broken down.”
Swift silently nodded. He grabbed the guard’s short sword. The pair then rose and set off quickly down the narrow passageway, Aurelius in the lead. Shortly, they came to a branch in the tunnel. The philosopher paused, then took the left hand route. Another few minutes and they faced a blank wall with a ladder affixed to it. The men ascended and found themselves in a narrow space hidden in the building’s thick walls.
Aurelius pressed his eye to a spyhole. His face became grim as his suspicions were realized.
“What is it?” queried Swift, tensely.
The philosopher gestured for him to look. Swift did so and peered into the walled courtyard garden that lay outside their hiding place. His gaze passed over the lush shrubs and their bright blooms, their beauty muted by the horror his staring eye beheld.
Professor Miller had been imprisoned in a square cage, about twenty feet across, that was located in the middle of the garden. In the cage was a plant, but even from a distance it was clear that this was no ordinary specimen. The weird growth, unique to the island and unknown to the outside world, consisted of a crimson rosette of stiff blade-like leaves edged with black thorns. Amazingly, from its base sprouted long spiny tendrils that writhed like twisting serpents.
The tendrils lashed frenziedly at professor Miller - living whips that would have torn flesh from bone but for the mesh barrier that separated man and nightmare plant. The professor, a look of unmitigated horror on his pale face was backed up against the bars, his fear distended eyes fixed on the mesh barrier that was being slowly raised by a brawny guard hauling on a rope and pulley system.
A group of grinning nobles observed the scene, the prisoner’s fear like heady wine to their perverted tastes. In the fore was Atticus the king - an obese middle aged man, entirely bald, his ugliness not at all relieved by the richness of his embroidered toga.
“This is your final chance,” snarled the king. “Speak the truth, barbarian. Where are your savage brethren, and how many? When will they attack?”
Professor Miller turned to face the king. The savant’s features were haggard with fear, and his voice was unsteady when he spoke.
“We are peaceful explorers,” he reiterated desperately as his trembling hands gripped the iron bars. “We mean no harm to anyone. We…”
Atticus cursed. He struck a blow through the bars. His pudgy fist knocked Miller to the ground.
“Raise the barrier fully,” cried the furious king. “Let the lash of the serubis scour his flesh. That will make this worthless cur speak the truth.”
Swift watched in horror as the guard hauled on the rope. The barrier lifted. Miller staggered up, stumbled back, his spine pressing against the bars, his wide staring eyes fixed in horror on the writhing limbs of the hellish devil-plant.
The horror sensed the barrier slowly rising. The lashing of its thorny tendrils increased in frightening tempo. Soon, its helpless prey would be in reach. Atticus laughed in sadistic delight. He struck with a brutal kick. The king’s sandalled foot slammed against Miller’s buttocks. The professor cried in pain. The force of the blow sent him stumbling. He fell to the ground as the barrier was fully raised.
The helpless savant cried in utter terror as a thorny tendril whipped down, like a satanic lash, towards his prostrate form.
As the horrid plant-monster’s thorny tendril cracked out so too did an agonized cry. But it was not the professor who uttered that terrible shriek. The guard hauling the rope fell, a short sword protruding from his bleeding back. The cage’s dividing barrier rattled down. It crashed upon the striking tendrils and pinned them to the earth.
Miller turned his head and saw Swift racing towards him. He also saw the open passage from which his student had madly dashed and quickly hurled his blade. At that moment a group of warriors also burst within the garden, come to warn the king of the prowling escapees.
Atticus screamed commands as he gestured wildly at the sprinting youth. “Kill him,” he madly cried, then turned to flee.
The two other nobles accompanying Atticus dashed away like frightened rabbits, but the obese king could not match the swiftness of their flying feet. Swift was after the cowardly monarch like a racing tiger. He pounced, his slamming brawn felling Atticus. The guards raced up, swords poised to mercilessly strike. But now Swift had the gasping king in a deadly choke. He twisted him around like a shield.
“Back,” he cried. “Get back or I’ll snap his neck like a rotten twig.” Then, to the trembling king as the guards hesitated: “Call off your dogs. Have them drop their weapons, or I’ll do exactly as I said.”
“Do as he says,” wheezed Atticus, fearfully. Like all sadists, the king was only brave when he had a helpless victim at his feet.
The guards cast down their swords and backed away. One of them opened the cage at Swift’s command and the professor, still somewhat shaken by his ordeal, emerged.
“Your a sight for sore eyes,” he gasped.
“We’re not out of this yet,” warned Swift as he hauled the obese monarch to his feet. “Get behind me, professor. We’ll use this fellow as a shield. He is certainly broad enough.”
The men backed away from the irresolute guards, Swift leading his companion towards the secret way from which the philosopher anxiously peered. They reached their destination, entered. Swift cursed. The king’s obese frame would not fit through the narrow entrance, crushing his hope of using the sovereign as a hostage to guarantee their safety.
The young man let go the king, swiftly booted him in the buttocks with all his might. Atticus yelped in pain. He crashed face down in the soil of the garden bed, his overweening pride more injured than his person.
“Payback for what you did to the professor, you bastard,” muttered Swift as he quickly slammed and locked the door.
“Quite,” warned Aurelius. “Listen.”
The crack of hammers on stone echoed through the secret way. It was incontrovertible evidence to the escapees that masons had been swiftly summoned, and were now furiously working at opening passage to the hidden corridors.
“We haven’t much time,” observed Aurelius, worriedly. “Quickly, follow me.”
The trio descended the ladder and hurriedly retraced their steps, the wavering torch flame pushing back the absolute blackness of the tunnel. Soon, they arrived at the branch in the passage. Here, Aurelius led them down the right hand way, explaining as they went.
“Our only hope is to reach the Temple of Refuge, a shrine dedicated to Clementia, goddess of mercy. As is the custom, the high priestess can grant us asylum. Not even our debased king would dare offend the gods by violating the sacred precincts of this holy sanctuary.”
“Perhaps so,” commented professor Miller. “But first we have to reach it.”
And as if to emphasize the point the crack of hammers, vigorously applied, echoed down the narrow passage. The trio increased their pace to a sprint. Down the long straight way they fled and within five minutes arrived at another wall with an upward leading ladder. Aurelius passed the torch to Miller, mounted the rungs and pressed his palm to the trapdoor. He heaved with with all his might but to no avail.
“It’s no use,” said the philosopher despairingly. “The accumulation of soil over the centuries must be weighing it down.” Aurelius bitterly cursed. “It’s one thing I didn’t think of.”
A crash - the sounded of broken stone striking the tunnel’s floor halted conversation for a moment.
“Let me try,” said Swift with urgency.
They exchanged places and the young man set his shoulder to the portal as another crash of fallen masonry echoed through the musty way. Swift braced his feet against the ladder’s rungs. He heaved mightily, muscles swelling with the effort. The sound of running feet drawing nearer spurred his effort. The Romans had broken through and were in pursuit like hounds upon the hare.
Swift felt the recalcitrant barrier move a little. He threw all his might against it in a final surge of strength. The trapdoor exploded outwards in a spray of soil. Gasping, the young man clambered out and struggled to his feet, breathing heavily. His companions quickly followed.
“There is no time to rest,” warned Aurelius as he slammed the trapdoor shut. “We have the lead and must not squander it.”
The escapees quickly set off through the open forest into which they’d emerged, one that clad the summit of the acclivity where the noble’s villas were situated. Swift saw that the topography was a saddle back hill with the temple, which could be partially seen through the trees, located at its further prominence in cloistered solitude.
A wild shout rang out as the trio began to descend the slope. The professor looked behind him and glimpsed men racing through the trees.
“They’re after us,” he gasped.
The escapees sprinted down the declivity, then struggled up the other side leading to the hill’s further prominence. Professor Miller stumbled, fell heavily. He lay upon the rocky earth gasping like a stranded fish.
“Leave me,” he panted as Swift bent and grasped his arm. “Save yourselves … I can’t go on.”
The young man ignored the professor’s plea as he hauled the savant to his feet.
“Lean on Aurelius. I’ll hold them off while both of you escape,” ordered Swift. “The temple isn’t far. You can make it.”
The philosopher looked down. At the base of the slope half a dozen warriors were commencing their rapid ascent, drawn short swords glinting in the sunlight. Already, they were but yards away.
“You can’t fight them,” Aurelius vigorously objected. “It’s suicide.”
Swift ignored his remark. He tore a rock from the soil and hurled it with all his might at the leading man. The fellow tried to duck, but wasn’t quite fast enough. The hurtling fist-size stone rang his helmet like a bell. The warrior cried out, fell. He rolled into another and tripped his hapless companion. Other men cursed, tried to leap aside. Two succeeded but the rest were felled by their tumbling fellows, knocked to earth like ninepins.
Swift wasn’t idle. All the while the young man had been vigorously pelting his foes with flying rocks. Fortunately, the attackers were members of Atticus’ bodyguard, and therefore not clad in full armor for battlefield combat. Thus the warriors had no choice but to hastily withdraw under the hammering barrage of bone cracking well aimed stones.
“Come on,” urged Swift. “They’ve retreated out of range. We’ve got to go.”
The escapees resumed their desperate flight. Professor Miller had regained some of his wind, enabling him to struggle up the slope. The high walled enclosure of the temple drew near, now only thirty yards away. The massive timber gate stood invitingly open. The trio, panting, sweat soaked, staggered towards it.
A rock whipped passed Swift’s ear in a narrow miss. The young man turned his head, silently cursed. The enemy had resumed pursuit and were now employing the methods he’d used against them.
Aurelius was struck, the stone thudding against his spine. He cried out, collapsed. Other rocks, poorly aimed, flew about the frightened escapees. Swift and the professor caught up the fallen philosopher. They stumbled towards the open gate as a wild shout rang out behind them.
The enemy charged. In but seconds the racing foe would fall upon them with stabbing blades. The trio staggered forward in utter desperation as the warriors swiftly closed the distance. Their pursuers were nearly on them when they stumbled across the sanctuary’s threshold. They collapsed like spent hounds in the shadow of the barbican as the gate slammed shut in the faces of the cursing foe.
“Safe at last,” thought Swift with considerable relief.
Then, from the ceiling of the barbican, an entangling net dropped down upon them, making a lie of all his cherished hope. Swift struggled against the ensnaring cords, but to no avail. The young man’s strength was spent from his frenetic exertions.
“Aurelius, this isn’t the welcome you promised us,” he bitterly panted.
“I’ve spent a month in prison,” replied the philosopher, worriedly. “It seems much has changed during my incarceration. Our reception is as much a shock to me as it is to you.”
Further conversation was ended by four figures emerging from the gate’s guardhouse where the portal had been closed by clever mechanisms. Swift saw that they were women dressed in white tunics and simple drawstring shorts. All were young and pretty, but the heavy cudgels that they carried belied their harmlessness, as did the hard expressions upon their youthful faces.
“We will free you from the net,” said one. “But if you cause the slightest trouble we’ll not hesitate to kill.”
“Martia,” cried the shocked philosopher. “It is I, Aurelius. Do you not recognize your uncle?”
The girl’s expression softened a little. “I’m sorry uncle. Things have happened that have made us suspicious of everyone. I have my orders. You will be taken to Regina, high priestess of Clementia. She will explain and decide your fate.”
Martia issued orders. The prisoners were freed from the entangling net. The trio rose cautiously to their feet under the watchful eyes of their captors who then herded them towards the temple.
Swift looked about as they moved along the gravel path. The sanctuary was surrounded by high walls with a watchtower at each corner. The inner walls were colonnaded, and it was on the left hand side that the living quarters of the priestesses were situated. Though the goddess Clementia took precedence, on the right, beneath the second colonnade, were shrines to other major Roman deities - Jupiter, Juno and Minerva.
Extensive and artfully planted vegetable gardens filled much of the enclosure. Colourful chicken-like flightless birds, bred for their eggs, scratched in the soil. The overall impression was one of a fortified self sufficient community.
The pathway led directly to the primary temple, which took the form of a marble rotunda about fifty feet across. They mounted a short flight of steps and entered the colonnaded building. At the far end was an alabaster statue of the goddess Clementia. The idol was of a standing life size semi-naked woman. One graceful arm bearing a golden scepter was held aloft. The other was extended forward at waist height, and in its palm was a golden bowel from which leaping flames rose in writhing tongues of fire.
A woman, her back to them, stood before the image. She cast incense pellets into the flaming bowl. The flames turned blue. Voluminous clouds of scented smoke erupted. The high priestess knelt before the idol, hands raised in silent prayer and adoration.
Swift observed her with interest as the party waited for the ritual to be completed. Her figure was slim and graceful. Night dark hair cascaded to her waist in multiple braids. She was clad in an elegant diaphanous white tunic that fell to her sandalled feet. The young man caught a tenuous glimpse of her face in profile, and what he saw hinted at great beauty.
Regina, crossed her hands over her pert breasts and bowed. The ritual was complete. She gracefully rose and turned to face them. Now Swift saw her countenance fully in all its wonder. Her eyes were large and dark and graced by arching eyebrows. Her nose was aquiline, her lips full and her visage a dusky jewel of superlative loveliness.
Her gaze passed over the captives. Aurelius she recognized. But her eyes widened in surprise at the sight of strangers, oddly dressed. Regina looked at Miller, then at Swift. Each saw the other fully. In that moment the world became oddly still. Light streamed through the temple’s columns. A single sunbeam caught both in its golden ray, infusing each with an aureate glow. Longing came upon Swift, and he saw his intense desire reflected in the startled look of the high priestess.
Martia spoke. The moment was broken by her intruding words.
“These people were being pursued by the warriors of Atticus. No doubt they seek sanctuary. But can we trust them, or is this some elaborate ruse - another attempt by our debased king to kidnap you? We look to your wise judgement to decide.”
Regina remained silent for a moment. Her heart fluttered in her breast like a bird. Her knees were weak and her breath had quickened with desire. She had entered the sisterhood as a young girl at the urging of her parents, who sought to bring prestige to the family through their daughter. At twenty seven she was still a virgin. Never before had such desire come upon her.
She was confused, alarmed by the intensity of disturbing emotions that were so contrary to the required chastity of her exalted position. Atticus she could view with contempt and revulsion. Regina had no desire for that bloated toad to embrace her. But the young man before her stirred up emotions quite the opposite. It was frightening, and in her fear she grew wrath at the threat it seemed to pose. How dare this beastly man make her feel this way!
Regina looked at Swift with anger, and he grew confused for this was so contrary to the desire he’d sensed before. Her words were even more shocking when she spoke.
“Confine them in the cellar,” she harshly said. “You may be right, Martia. This may be a plot to infiltrate the temple. Prepare the Ordeal of Truth. If they survive then they’re innocent. Now, take them from my sight, especially the youngest of the trio. His gaze is too bold for my liking.”
As they were led from the temple Swift cast a rearward glance. Regina had turned her back to him and he saw her spine was rigid with anger. She knelt before the idol, its frozen gaze no less stony than her own. The young man fell into a black pit of crushing despair.
Aurelius restlessly walked about the confines of the cellar in which they’d been incarcerated. They hadn’t been there long, but even so the philosopher looked as agitated as his companions. His eyes scanned the chamber hoping to find some means of escaping their makeshift prison, but the room was free of tools to effect this goal. The only thing that met his gaze was a cornucopia of viands - earthenware jars of oil, dried herbs and vegetables hanging from the ceiling, and large containers of other preserved foodstuffs.
For a sage, the philosopher uttered some surprisingly vulgar words. He turned to his companions. “I’m truly sorry,” he said bitterly. “I thought I was leading you to safety. But instead I’ve brought you into further danger.”
Professor Miller rose from the barrel he’d been sitting on and placed a hand on Aurelius shoulder. “It’s not your fault,” he comfortingly said. “You couldn’t know things had changed so much. Have you any idea what’s happened?”
Aurelius sighed and shook his head. “I should have foreseen this. With every passing year Atticus has sunk a little lower into black debasement. It’s no secret he desires the high priestess. His drunken tongue has said as much. But now it seems his depravity is complete. His burning lust has broken free of all restraint.”
“Be that as it may,” interjected Swift who was leaning against a shelf. “What is of more immediate concern is this Ordeal of Truth we’ll have to undergo. What is it, and have we any chance of survival?”
“It’s an ancient ritual,” began Aurelius. “A table is placed before the statue of the goddess and on that table stand four large urns. Only one of these urns is free of insects called latrodectus. These are a type of spider about the size of a man’s thumbnail. They are coal black. Their abdomens are marked with 13 red spots. A single bite can prove fatal. Multiple bites will definitely kill. Death from their venom is not a painless thing.”
The professor paled and sat shakily back on the barrel. He had a considerable fear of spiders. “They’re Mediterranean black widows,” he informed Swift. “God help us.”
“May the goddess Clementia help us,” corrected Aurelius. “One of us, or perhaps all of us will be questioned. We will then be asked to swear in the goddess’s name that we have not lied, then forced to plunge our right hand into one of the urns. If the person selects the urn free of latrodectus then they are considered innocent as the goddess has guided their choice. The placing of the jars is done in such a way that not even Regina will know which is free of deadly spiders.”
“A one in four chance,” grimly observed Swift. “The odds are not at all to my liking. Is there any way to improve them, apart from divine intervention, which I doubt will be forthcoming.”
“There may be a slim chance,” advised the professor, who had managed to calm himself. “I have heard that mint can repel spiders. I don’t know if this is true, but if there is mint here then we can rub our hands and arms with it and pray that it works. Aurelius,” he continued, turning to the philosopher,” have you heard of this herbal property?”
“No,” admitted the sage. “And if I haven’t then probably neither has Regina. It’s worth a try. Ah, up there,” he pointed. “I thought I saw some earlier.”
The creak of the cellar door being opened made all three start. Swift jumped, tore down the hanging mint. The trio vigorously rubbed their hands and forearms with the herbs. The young man then quickly tossed the mangled remains behind a row of barrels as seven armed priestesses tramped rapidly down the stairs, Martia in the lead.
“Preparations for the ritual are complete,” she announced. “If you attempt to escape you will be considered guilty and we will kill you. Now, come with us.”
The worried men were herded up the stairs. They emerged into a colonnaded section of the inner wall. A short walk along another gravel path brought them to the temple where Regina stood. The high priestess looked at Swift as he entered, and again disturbing emotions beset her. She turned to the image of the goddess. It gazed back at her - cold, lifeless and insensate. For the first time in Regina’s life the serene visage of Clementia brought no comfort.
She forced aside the thought that she had possibly condemned innocent men to death. Regina clung to her faith like a drowning man clutches at straws. No, the goddess was just, merciful. If they were blameless no harm would come to them. The high priestess turned to the men who now stood in a row before her, their guards behind them, bludgeons ready to swiftly strike if necessary.
“I will ask you questions,” Regina began. “You will answer them truthfully and then swear by the goddess Clementia that you have not lied. You will then insert your right hand into one of these covered urns. If you have spoken the truth no harm will befall to you.”
This reassurance was said forcefully, and Swift insightfully perceived that it was emphasized more to reassure herself than anyone else. The young man glanced sideways and saw that professor Miller was pale and sweating heavily. The man was struggling mightily to control his spider phobia. It had come upon him savagely now that he was in the presence of the horrid creatures. Swift came to a decision. There was no guarantee that the mint would work. He was much younger and fitter than his companions. If he was bitten his chances of survival would be higher.
“I will answer for all of us,” he said stepping forward. “Ask me your questions and I will undergo the test.”
Fear clutched Regina’s breast. She suddenly regretted her decision. But it was too late now. She swayed, clutched the table on which the four urns stood. Swift stepped to aid the woman. Martia caught him by the hair, pulled him back.
“My lady,” she cried. “Are you ill?”
The high priestess recovered her poise. She ignored Martia and began to question Swift as to his origin and that of professor Miller. The young man truthfully explained everything - how they’d come from the outside world, the nature of the expedition and all that had befallen them since their arrival on the island.
“And you swear in Clementia’s name that everything you have told me is true, that you have not lied in any way,” asked Regina at the conclusion of Swift’s account.
“I do,” he replied.
“May Clementia guide your hand if you have spoken truly. Now, step forward and make your choice. You must decide before the sand runs out,” concluded Regina as she turned over an hourglass.
Swift approached the covered urns. Each was about a foot tall and ten inches in diameter- plain stoneware jars, all identical. The young man was as tense and as worried as his onlooking companions. He glanced at the hourglass. There wasn’t an hour’s worth of sand in it. Perhaps a minute’s worth at most. The young man steeled himself. The jar before him either contained spiders or it didn’t. The mint would either work or it wouldn’t. He reached out to grasp the lid.
It was then that a betraying breeze carried the faint odour of mint to Regina. The high priestess hissed in anger. She darted forward and grabbed Swift’s hand, all sympathy swept away by rage.
“Mint,” she cried in anger as she smelt the fingers that she had clasped him with. The priestesses, unbeknown to non-initiates, bred the spiders for their sacred trial, and after many centuries well knew the creatures likes and dislikes.
Regina turned on Swift, her face alive with fury. “If you’ve told the truth, then why this deceitful circumvention of our sacred rite? Why deceive Me?”She cried in hot outrage.
Swift had been exposed. There was no point in lying. “Your gods don’t know me and I don’t know them,” he calmly replied, hiding his fear. “When the help of the gods is uncertain a man must help himself. Have you ever asked yourself how many innocent people have died as a result of your test? Have you…”
“Blasphemy,” cried Regina in reflexive denial, for Swift had sourly touched suppressed doubts.
“My lady,” spoke Martia. “The fact that he tried to evade the test surely condemns him. Shall we slay him now?”
Regina hesitated for a second. What her answer would have been none would know, for a booming crash stilled the words upon her lips. Every eye turned towards the mighty impact’s source - the entrance to the temple compound. Regina gasped. She ran out to investigate. The heavy gate was bowed inwards. Again it was struck a terrific blow. The door was flung inwards. A dozen beefy men, more of Atticus’ personal guard summoned by the escapees pursuers, cast aside the heavy battering ram. They raced within the compound and charged towards the temple in a wild rush.
The other priestesses ran forward and stood in front of Regina in a protective line. They clearly meant to fight despite the odds. Swift looked on anxiously. He overheard Regina speak to Martia:
“I don’t understand. Olivia was on watch in the gate tower. Why didn’t she sound the alarm when she saw the men approaching?”
“There’s your answer,” replied Martia, furiously. “She’s betrayed us.”
Swift saw a young woman calmly emerge from the gatehouse and follow in the wake of the racing guards who by now had reached Regina and her priestesses.
“Now is our chance to get away,” whispered professor Miller to his student.
“There’s only one exit to the compound,” informed Aurelius. “We’ll never get past those men unnoticed. Let us discreetly remain here and see what eventuates.“
Swift didn’t like hiding in the temple while the priestesses bravely faced their foes, but at the same time he didn’t want to unnecessarily endanger his companions who, not being in their prime, were ill suited to wild combat. Thus he reigned in his chivalrous instincts and listened with the others as events unfolded.
“Throw down your weapons,” ordered the leader of the invading squad. “Your clubs are no match for our swords.”
“Throw down yours,” replied Regina, defiantly. “You stand upon hallowed ground. Have you no respect for the law, no fear of divine retribution for your sin against the goddess?
“And you,” she continued, turning her wrath upon the treacherous Olivia who now stood beside the leader of the villains, “the goddess will curse…”
“Olivia cut her off with a contemptuous laugh as she laid her arm upon that of Janis, leader of the squad.
“Spare me your righteous drivel,” she hotly replied. “I’m tired of this celebrate and impoverished life, this devotion to a goddess as cold as the stone her image is carved from. Janis loves me, has promised to marry me , to shower me with kisses and precious jewels. Is this not so dearest,” she concluded, clinging to him.
Janis smiled cruelly. “You have served your purpose well. Here is your reward.”
Regina cried in horror as the brute, without hesitation or remorse, drove his sword into Olivia’s heart. Then, as the woman lay dying upon the earth he turned to the shocked onlookers.
“The king has found all of you guilty of harboring barbarian spies. You have refused to surrender.” Then, turning to his men. “Slay all of them except for the high priestess whom Atticus desires.”
The guards rushed forward, swords swinging viciously. Blades struck clubs. Clubs struck flesh. Someone screamed. Blood jetted sickeningly. The battle was on in earnest.
The sound of brutal combat was a pricking spur to Swift. No longer could he remain a passive bystander. But what for a weapon to join the fray? An idea sprang to mind. He tore the lid from the jar he’d chosen and peered inside. It was completely empty. Deception had been unnecessary. It was only later the irony of it would come upon him.
“The other jars must be full of latrodectus,” he said to his companions. “We can hurl the deadly spiders at the foe. We have no choice but to join the fight.”
Each man grabbed an urn. They rushed from the temple. Swift saw Janis strike down another woman. He hurled his jar with a cry of hot outrage. The pot shattered against the brute’s helmet. Janis staggered back, spiders clinging to his face and torso. He shrilly screamed in fear and pain as the creatures began to bite.
Aurelius and Miller also hurled their jars. Each scoured a direct hit upon a man. Solders screamed. Aggressive spiders scuttled everywhere, biting sandalled feet. The priestesses fell back clear of danger as their panicked attackers danced about in wild terror.
Sturdy calf high boots protected Swift. His toes could not be bitten. He dashed forward, snatched up a fallen sword and leaped among the foe, slashing wildly with his whistling blade. A Roman fell, blood gushing from his severed throat. Others tumbled before the young man’s whirlwind onslaught. The priestesses hurled their heavy clubs. Ribs cracked, men fell, angry spiders bit.
It was all too much for the panicked attackers who’d expected an easy victory against defenceless women and cowering escapees. Now, vigorously instructed to the contrary, the four survivors cast aside their weapons and quickly fled the scene.
Panting heavily Swift, with the flat of his blade, swatted several spiders clinging to his boots, and then walked towards the priestesses and his comrades. He saw Regina kneeling beside the dead Olivia, weeping softly.
“Oh, you poor foolish girl,” she gasped as her companions also knelt before slain friends in wailing, teary grief.
“We must quickly go,” urged Swift as he stopped before Regina, the young man also affected by the wrenching sight. “Atticus will send more men in overwhelming numbers. Is there another refuge to which we can retreat?”
“But the dead,” she cried. “We cannot just leave them...”
“The living must come first,” interjected Aurelius. “Thomas is right. More men will come and we cannot fight them all. Let us away before they arrive. Maximus, your father, is the commander of Eagle Fortress. Surely, he will not turn away his daughter and her companions.”
Regina stood, her expression troubled as she looked at Swift. To her he was a man of disturbing contradictions. He had tried to deceive her - a base act. And yet he had fought bravely and cleverly against her foes.
“Barbarian spies,” she said as she searched his face. How can I be sure this isn’t true.”
“The jar I chose was empty,” he replied. “Go to the temple and you’ll see. Its in the same position.”
“You could have moved it,” she countered, then turned away and pressed her palm against her forehead. “Oh, I don’t know what to think.”
“I’m placing my life in your hands,” he said. “I and my teacher will be entering your father’s stronghold. We’ll be surrounded by his loyal men. Would spies willingly place themselves in the hands of enemies?”
“Events have made me uncertain of many things,” she replied. “But as you say you will be surrounded by my father’s men. I will have him watch you carefully.” Then, turning to her fellow priestesses: “Dry your tears. We depart at once for Eagle Fortress. Bury no one, take nothing. There is no time.”
**********
It was now late afternoon and Swift sat in one of Eagle Fortress’s small guest rooms, meditating on all that had transpired. Fortunately, they had reached their refuge without incident. The danger, however, was far from over. Eagle Fortress, denoted by the bird of prey carved above its gate, was identical to Wolf Fortress (the first he’d encountered), and was situated in the opposite direction about half a mile from it.
Regina, her surviving priestesses and Aurelius had been warmly received, but Swift and professor Miller were still being treated with suspicion. Maximus’ attitude had softened a little when Regina had related how the Englishmen had come to her defence, but that didn’t stop him from having a guard shadow them at every step. Indeed, there was one standing outside the door right now.
Maximus was furious when Regina informed him of Atticus’ attempt to kidnap her, and unhappy that she hadn’t advised him of the earlier incident. But as Regina explained she had only suspicions that the king was behind the first attack, and to accuse the sovereign without sound evidence was most unwise. But when Atticus’ personal guard had broken in there was no longer any doubt.
Swift grimaced. Civil unrest was coming, precipitated by a despot so intoxicated by his sense of power that he thought he could do anything and get away with it. The island’s society was divided into three classes: the nobles at the apex, from which were drawn the intellectuals, priests and priestesses as well as military commanders. Beneath them were the plebeians, which included soldiers, shopkeepers and the overseers of the slaves. At the bottom were the docile chattels, the bulk of which laboured in the fields, or worked in trades such as that of blacksmith, carpenter and stonemason.
The nobility backed the king out of self interest and mostly paid lip-service to religion. They wouldn’t be happy if Attacus forcibly added Regina to his seraglio of pretty slave girls, but they wouldn’t rebel either. Neither would the slaves. It was no concern of theirs what their aristocratic masters did to each other.
The free men and women, however, were a different story. They took religion far more seriously than those at the pinnacle of society. When news got out of what had happened (there were already mutterings among the common soldiers of the fort) they’d be outraged. Attacus had little respect from the plebeians as it was. The king made no secret of his debased lifestyle, so secure did he feel in his power, out of touch as he was from the commoners.
Swift wondered when trouble would erupt. Wolf Fortress was in close proximity to Eagle. It probably wouldn’t be long before soldiers from Wolf arrived, demanding Maximus surrender his daughter, something he’d obviously refuse to do. A dangerous storm was brewing. People would be forced to take sides, with Attacus and Maximus being the focal points. Civil war was in the wind, and he and Miller would be caught in the middle of it.
Swift’s musings were cut short by the opening of the door. He looked up and saw Regina standing on the threshold, and his heart quickened at the sight of her as he rose from his chair. She dismissed the guard who left reluctantly. The high priestess then entered, a troubled look upon her face.
“Has your father reached a decision? Does he still believe we’re spies?” the young man asked, thinking this was the cause of her disquiet.
“No. He is inclined to believe both of you,” she replied. “That is not the problem. My father knows there will be trouble. The king will send his men demanding that he turn me over to them. He hasn’t said so, but I think he may try and appease Atticus by surrendering you and your companion in exchange for my life and liberty.”
Swift wasn’t overly shocked. His reading of Maximus when they’d met was that the commander was a pragmatist rather than an idealist. That he’d consider doing a deal with Atticus wasn’t surprising.
“In that case we’re dead men,”he quietly said.
Oh, don’t you think I know that,” she cried, and then turned away from him and began to piteously weep.
Swift, moved by her tears, took Regina in his arms. She stiffened at first, then relaxed when he did not attempt to touch her in an ungentlemanly manner. The young man knew this might be the only moment of intimacy they’d have before he was dragged to his death by the foe.
“Regina,” he began. “I’ve only known you a short time, but I’ve fallen in love with you. I … I don’t know what the future holds, but I want to say this while I still can.” Swift sighed. “If only we could get far away from here and start a new life in England.”
The high priestess stiffened at his last words. She pushed him away and stepped back, eyeing him warily, the memory of Olivia coming sharply to her mind.
“Are you asking me to help you escape, to betray my father? Are you deceiving me just as Janus did poor Olivia? Perhaps her death was divine punishment for impious love.”
“Regina, please believed me,” Swift cried in consternation. “That’s not at all the case. My feelings for you are indeed genuine. Olivia died not because she fell in love, but because she fell in love with the wrong kind of man. I am not the wrong kind of man,” he continued as he stepped towards her, arms outstretched imploringly.
“No, keep back,” she cried, then turned and fled the room, beset by a wild tumult of conflicting emotions.
Swift sagged to his chair, completely deflated. He didn’t blame Regina. She was a priestess from a different age with different attitudes and values. Her religion and her culture stood between them. He’d been a fool to think anything other than heartbreak could come from his desires.
Professor Miller entered the room, his ablutions at the bath house now complete.
“I saw Regina leaving,” observed the savant.” She looked quite upset. What’s wrong?”
Swift explained what had happened, and then concluded: “Maximus will no doubt surrender us to Atticus to save his daughter. We can’t escape. We are watched too closely and the fort is on high alert for trouble. The only thing I can think of is that we make ourselves so valuable to Maximus that he wont turn us over to the king. But how we can do this is beyond me.”
Miller sat on another chair and thought. The room was gloomily silent for what seemed an age until the quiet was broken by the professor.
“I have an idea,” he exclaimed. “Atticus commands his personal guard and retains their loyalty through favoritism. Some are stationed in his palace, the bulk at Wolf Fortress. Thus ambitious nobles who covert his throne are kept in check. Roman politics is ruthless and Maximus, if I’ve read him right, is as ambitious as the rest of the nobility. If Maximus had something that could counter the superior numbers and equipment of the king’s guard, then I’m sure he’d initiate a coup, especially now that his daughter is in danger.”
“But what could we possibly offer him?” asked Swift.
“The secret of explosives,” replied professor Miller with a smile. “This island can support a fairly large population for its size, which means the yield from agricultural production is quite high. I was curious to know how they achieved this and Maximus explained that the nearby hills have large caves containing significant deposits of bat guano that is used as fertilizer. Potassium nitrate is created naturally by the reaction of urine with feces. The soil in those caves would be rich in this chemical - a crucial ingredient in gunpowder. I’ll speak to Maximus at once.”
**********
It was early morning of the following day. The violent crash of the battering ram against the gate was a sign things had seriously gone awry. The legion form Wolf had arrived at dusk, too late to begin their assault. But now that the sun had risen the enemy was laying heavy siege to Eagle. The fortress was surrounded. They were cut off from the guano caves and all outside help.
Swift, already edgy, jumped as the door banged open. He jerked around. Maximus, sword drawn, stormed within the room.
“This is it,” he grimly thought. “The bastard plans to turn us over to the king.”
“Is it ready yet,” snapped Maximus. “If you’ve lied to me you’ll wish I had turned you over to Atticus.”
“Almost there,” replied professor Miller as he hurriedly mixed the potassium nitrate obtained from the fort’s pit toilets with other ingredients. It was only by feverishly working through the night that the savant had achieved this much.
“Hurry,” snarled Maximus. “The gate will fall at any moment.”
Another booming crash rang out as Swift wiped the sweat from his brow with one hand and held the bronze bottle steady with the other. Aurelius watched, fascinated despite the danger, as Miller poured the gunpowder into the vessel and then inserted a fuse.
The sound of splintering wood came sharply to the tensely working men. A victory cry rang out from the besiegers as the gate was flung open by another mighty blow. Swift snatched the improvised grenade and the other next to it. He bolted from the room, raced towards the splintered gate.
The young man saw the enemy on the verge of pouring though it, protected from the defender’s rain of arrows by their roof of overlapping shields. Swift, one grenade tucked under his armpit ignited the other with his paraffin lighter. He hurled it at the rushing men, flung himself to the ground.
An explosion shook the earth. Swords and shields whirled skyward. Corpses, mangled by the shattering blast were flung violently about. Smoke billowed. Screams of fear and pain were torn form the unnerved enemy. Swift sprang to his feet. Ignoring the bloody carnage and his own fear he ran forward and hurled another grenade through the gateway.
The second blast thundered out. More soldiers were blown to bits. From the parapets the defenders released a storm of arrows upon the stunned survivors whose shield formation had been completely disrupted by the blasts. Maximus burst from the room, sprinted towards Swift, another grenade clutched tightly in one hand and a shepherd’s sling in the other.
“Here,” he gasped, pressing the items into Swift’s hands. “Use this to hurl the bomb from the parapets. You’ll get more range.”
Swift nodded, dashed up the stairs leading to the battlements, the commander quickly following. He reached his goal, saw the enemy reserves a hundred yards away. Consternation was evident in the foe. Their comrades had been slaughtered, but how?
Swift pulled more fuse from the bottle, adjusting the bomb’s timing. A granite ball, hurled by an enemy ballista, smashed into the parapet some feet away. Stone fragments exploded. Swift held his nerve, ignited the fuse, swung the bottle in its sling until it became a singing blur.
A hissing arrow nicked his ear, another struck a legionnaire. Swift ignored the pain, the screams of stricken men. He hurled the grenade and dropped behind the crenelations as another flight of enemy arrows raked the bloodstained battlements.
The grenade arched high. The foe saw it coming. They raised their shields, ignorant of the true nature of the weapon. The bomb bounced upon the shields, fell upon the ground behind them. It exploded with a terrific blast that sent dead men flying. Smoke billowed. Warriors cried in pain and panic. Discipline broke. Soldiers cast away their shields. They fled in utter terror before what seemed to them the work of devils.
Cheers rang out from the defenders. Swift stood and surveyed the bloody scene. Maximus joined him.
“By Mars, god of war,” exclaimed the commander of the fort. “Your bottled thunder has wrought more death in a few moments than an entire legion could in an hour of vicious of fighting.” He slapped Swift on the back with hearty merriment. “It is indeed a marvellous thing.”
The young man, by contrast, could only feel sick at the gory sight of mutilated bodies.
**********
It was mid morning of the following day. Swift paced the garden of Maximus’ home, sick with worry. Yesterday, they’d had a hard and rapid march from Eagle Fortress to the town of Pilum where the families of the legionnaires resided. Maximus had been fearful that Atticus, having failed to defeat him, and unlikely to do so in the light of the new and terrifying weapons, would exact bloody revenge on his soldier’s loved ones, or at the very least take them hostage in an attempt to force the rebels capitulation.
Maximus’ fears were well founded. They’d arrived just ahead of a column of troops marching from Wolf Fortress. The enemy hesitated at the sight of Maximus’ Eagle standard, now well aware of the terrible weapons at his disposal. But the commander of the Wolf, with the flat of his sword and dire threats, drove his men forward in a suicidal advance.
The battle was brief but bloody. Swift hurled the last grenade. The explosion hoisted Wolf’s commander, Titus Decimus, into the air. It was too much for his men. Leaderless and terrified by weapons beyond their comprehension, they fled in disorganized terror.
Maximus’ troops had victoriously secured Pilum, and when the citizens were told of Atticus’ attempt to kidnap Regina, with the high priestess corroborating the crime by addressing the people in the town square, they soon sided with the rebels in outrage at the vile actions of their debased king. Even those families of the soldiers of Wolf Fortress added their voices to calls for the overthrow of the tyrant, but whether this was genuine or an act of self-preservation remained to be seen.
Everything was going exceedingly well until morning revealed the dead guard who had been stationed outside Regina’s bedroom - the man on midnight watch. Her bedchamber was empty. A note had been cast upon her rumpled bedding demanding the surrender of Maximus and the two Englishmen. If the trio hadn’t presented themselves before Attacus’ throne by evening Regina was to die by slow torture.
Swift, although beside himself with fear for Regina, had managed to rein in his wild emotions long enough to formulate, with Aurelius’ help, a desperate plan which Maximus was now considering. Professor Miller watched the young man pacing up and down the garden path. The savant felt rather helpless, unable to console his companion. He prayed Swift wasn’t throwing his life away in a wild scheme that was doomed to failure from the outset. Still, what choice was there? The girl had to be saved and there was no guarantee that the vile king would spare her life even if they surrendered to him - a fact that he’d strongly pointed out to Maximus.
Both Englishmen turned at the sound of feet upon the path. Maximus was approaching, followed by Aurelius whose council he’d sought concerning Swift’s desperate ploy. Miller rose from the stone bench and stepped to the side of his student, his physical nearness a sign of moral support. Swift was tenser than a wound spring. The fate of the woman he loved hung in the balance. If Maximus refused his plan…
The commander halted before the men. He looked Swift in the eye and spoke directly.
“This is a desperate scheme you’ve devised, so desperate it hints that your feelings for my daughter are more than that of mere friendship. Am I right?”
“I love her,” admitted Swift.
Maximus tensed. As high priestess of Clementia Regina was sacred. No man could profanely touch her. He had no evidence that Swift had acted improperly, but he saw the danger to his daughter. Both were young, and young blood ran hot with risky passions. If any impropriety occurred the couple would be put to death. Maximus loved his daughter, would move heaven and earth to protect her. At the moment he needed Swift, but afterwards perhaps it would be better to eliminate the Englishman least Regina reciprocate his feelings.
The commander forced himself to smile. “I approve of your plan,” he said. Then, turning to Aurelius: “See that Thomas has everything he needs, and hurry. We don’t have much time.”
**********
It was about noon as the slave drawn wagon drew near the service entrance of the king’s villa. The rumbling of its wheels on the cobblestones had alerted the six guards well before it had crested the rise, and now they stood alertly, their suspicious eyes fixed on the approaching wain, even though it had already passed through other recently established checkpoints.
A sentry stepped forward and halted the wagon with an upraised hand. The diminutive sweating slaves sank to the ground in blissful rest as the warrior cast his scrutinizing gaze on the driver, whose downward glance and broad brimmed hat hid his countenance.
“Show your face and state your business,” snapped the guard, his hand dropping to his sword.
The driver, an elderly bearded fellow looked up. The guard recognized him as the delivery man who brought goods to the king’s villa, but his suspicions were hardly allayed as further supplies were not due for another two days.
“You’re early, Claudius” he said mistrustfully. “Why?”
“A special delivery from Tiberius, the vintner,” replied the driver. “A gift to prove his loyalty to the king in these troubled times.”
“And what do you know of these troubles?” asked the guard, pointedly.
“Only that Tiberius wants nothing to do with the rebels, and hence the gift,” calmly replied the ancient.
The guard grunted and climbed on the wagon. He carefully examined the amphora laden wain. The jars were too small to conceal anything but wine, and the vehicle held nothing else. If the wine was poisoned the king’s food taster would detect it.
Satisfied the testing of the liquor wasn’t his responsibility, the warrior jumped off and crawled underneath the wagon, again finding nothing suspicious. Emerging from beneath the vehicle he shouted orders. The double gate swung wide and the wain with its sweating slaves rumbled into the villa’s grounds.
The heavy gates closed and the wagon pulled up beside the loading dock of the villa’s storage area. Claudius looked carefully about. An incurious slave walked passed and disappeared around the corner of the building. It was now noon and those within the villa felt secure enough to retire for the midday siesta. The unexpected arrival of supplies had caught the servants by surprise. No one else was about, and it would be a few minutes before unloading could be organized.
Quickly, Claudius climbed from the conveyance and strode to the tail gate, which he lowered, thus revealing that the wagon had a false bottom concealed by its sides. The driver removed a rear panel, revealing sandalled feet. Claudius, his nervousness well hidden behind his calm facade, looked about a final time to make sure he was unobserved, then he grabbed the hidden man’s ankles and hauled.
Swift emerged from the claustrophobic compartment of the vehicle’s false bottom and staggered erect.
“Let’s not do that again any time soon,” he muttered to no one in particular as he leaned on the wagon and wiped the sweat from his face. “How do I look?”
“Dishevelled,” replied Claudius, quietly as he replaced the panel and raised the tailgate. “Straighten your clothes and look alert. Remember, you’re my assistant.”
Claudius’ sudden sideways glance told Swift someone was coming. The Englishman turned and saw the villa’s majordomo striding from the loading dock’s entryway. Swift hastily put his Roman apparel in order as the stocky man approached.
“What’s this, Claudius,” snarled the surly fellow. “You’re early. We’re not ready to receive more goods. Your arrival is most inconvenient. I was about to enjoy a good lie down with a pretty slave. But now you’ve disturbed my pleasure with your clattering cart. Why, I’ve a mind to have you flogged. And who’s this graceless fool standing next to you?” he concluded with a glare at Swift.
“Peace, Strabo, peace,” replied Claudius soothingly. “This is my assistant. We will unload Tiberius’ gift of wine to the king. You need not trouble yourself with rousing servants and supervising things. We will do all that is necessary. Return to your bed and may the pretty girl bring you much pleasure.”
“Well,” replied Strabo after a moment’s thought. “I suppose it should be all right. You know your way around this part of the villa. Just make sure your clod of an assistant doesn’t break something or create any kind of disturbance.”
The two men, much relieved, watched Strabo depart after further reassurances from Claudius. They commenced to unload the amphora and then quietly conveyed them to the cellar of the building.
It was hard work lugging the twelve heavy wine jars to the storage area, but at last the task was done. Swift and Claudius stood in the shadowed silence of the cellar. All around them the occupants of the building were slumbering.
“Do you think you’ll have any trouble getting out?” asked Swift, quietly.
“No,” replied Claudius. “The warriors saw one man enter. They will see one leave, and the slaves pulling the wagon will say nothing. Only Strabo knows two men were here, and he is unlikely to speak to the guards. The fellow is arrogant and does not readily converse with his inferiors unless he has to. You face far greater danger than I. May the gods grant success to your most desperate enterprise.”
The men gripped hands in farewell. Claudius departed and Swift began to look for the secret sign that indicated the concealed entrance to the villa’s network of hidden passageways.
The tunnels that gave access to the villa from outside would, in all likelihood by now be heavily guarded at their entrances. It would have been suicidal to attempt access that way, but once within the villa Swift hoped he could use them to move about unobserved and thus locate and rescue Regina.
Thanks to Aurelius’ detailed description Swift soon located the innocuous mark on one section of the wall. The young man drew the dagger from the sheath strapped to his inner thigh. He placed his palm to the stone and took a deep calming breath. So many things could go horribly wrong. He pressed the stone. The long unused mechanism eventually gave beneath his vigorous thrust, and the hidden door swung inwards.
Swift stepped across the threshold and right into the path of an oncoming warrior. The guard’s eyes widened in momentary surprise. Then his blade was leaping at the Englishman like a striking serpent as his mouth gaped in a cry of alarm that would bring the entire villa down upon this rash intruder.
The guard was quick, but Swift was faster. The young man’s dagger deflected his assailant’s flying blade. Stepping close he speedily slammed his beefy fist against the Roman’s jaw in a blow worthy of a heavyweight. The man’s head snapped back. His cry of alarm was stillborn and his sword clattered to the floor. Swift drove another right against his chin and the hapless fellow quickly joined his fallen blade.
Swift looked rapidly about and breathed a little easier. No one else was in sight. That the tunnels were patrolled was not entirely unexpected. The clattering of the sword had been frighteningly loud. No doubt other guards had heard it. He didn’t have much time.
Quickly, he stripped the senseless man of his apparel and donned it. It was a tight fit due to his larger frame, but in the dim light of the widely spaced oil lamps that had been recently installed he hoped his ill fitting armor would go unnoticed.
The sound of hurrying footsteps made Swift’s already racing heart beat even faster. He quickly dragged the senseless man within the cellar and gave him another mighty blow to ensure he remained unconscious. Then, stepping back into the hidden way he hurriedly closed the door.
Two keyed up warriors raced around a corner of the tunnel and saw him in the act of picking up the fallen sword.
“What’s amiss,” cried one.
“I dropped my sword. That’s all,” replied Swift, calmly as he imitated the Roman accent.
“Clumsy fool,” snapped the other. “Another false alarm and you’ll bitterly regret it. Now, resume your patrol and be more careful, you gawky imbecile.”
Swift nodded and walked away with an air of calmness he didn’t at all feel. He continued on for about a hundred feet before risking a glance behind him. The warriors had disappeared around the bend, resuming their patrol.
In quick silence the worried Englishman raced back the way he’d come and reentered the cellar by its concealed door. He was none too soon for the man he’d struck was on all fours struggling to gain his unsteady legs.
Swift sprang to his side and pressed his sword to the groggy fellow’s neck.
“The slightest noise from you and you’re dead,” he harshly warned. “Now, answer my questions truthfully if you wish to live. I’m looking for Regina. Where is she? Speak quietly.”
“The cell near the villa’s kitchen,” answered the shaky fellow.
It was as Swift had suspected, and although it was good to have his deduction confirmed he knew success was far from guaranteed. The mission he was on was virtually suicidal.
“If you’ve lied to me,” replied the Englishman in a harsh whisper, “I’ll return and kill you, and if I die before I can my ghost will haunt you all your days with such terrors that death will be a blessing. Now, do you wish to change your story in any way?”
The superstitious fellow paled at these frightening words. “I swear I’ve told you the truth,” he unhesitatingly replied.
Swift asked several more questions, and when he was as satisfied as he could be with the truthfulness of man’s answers he bound and gagged the fellow, and concealed him behind a stack of crates.
Having hidden the guard as best he could Swift hurriedly left the cellar, and quickly made his way to the location where he and the professor had been imprisoned. As he neared he slowed his pace so as not to arouse the suspicion of the two warriors guarding the ladder that gave access to the room above.
“Halt,” cried one guard at the sight of the approaching Englishman. “Who comes and for what purpose?”
“The falcon flies high,” said Swift, giving the password. “I’ve come as additional reinforcement. The king believes there are sympathizers in the villa who may try and free the prisoner.”
“We’ve heard nothing of this,” said the other warrior suspiciously.
Swift produced a rolled up piece parchment he’d found in the cellar. “Orders from Hadrianus, commander of the villa’s guards. May I give them to you?”
“Come forward,” said the wary fellow who had first spoken.
The Englishman advanced. One warrior had drawn his sword while the other stood ready to receive the orders. Both men were on high alert. Sweat beaded Swift’s brow. His chances were frighteningly slim, but there was no option of retreat.
The waiting guard extended his hand to receive the orders. Swift lunged, slammed the parchment into the fellow’s throat. His dagger, concealed within the roll, fatally pierced the man. The second guard cursed, thrust at the Englishman. Swift had anticipated the rapid attack. He’d caught the falling body, twisted it like a shield.
The blade of his remaining foe grated against the dead man’s armor. Swift slammed the corpse against his attacker like a battering ram, driving him violently against the tunnel’s wall. He grabbed the Roman’s sword arm. The corpse slid to the floor as the two protagonists wrestled desperately. Swift tripped on the body. He fell, but managed to drag his opponent down with him. They continued their violent combat, grappling furiously.
Swift’s foe opened his mouth to wildly shout for help. The desperate Englishman headbutted his opponent before the alarm could be given. Blood sprayed from the fellow’s broken nose. Swift managed to jam his forearm across the guard’s throat, cutting off his cry of pain. He bore down mercilessly, crushing the man’s larynx in a fatal attack. The Roman’s wild thrashings subsided, and soon he lay still in death’s black embrace.
Swift climbed to his feet. The panting Englishman looked wildly about. There was no indication that the brief but savage fight had been noticed. He looked up and saw that the broken trapdoor had been replaced by a square of thick heavy timber. The panel had been secured by ropes to the the ladder’s rungs so it couldn’t be levered up. It was as Swift had hoped - a makeshift solution until the masons could carve some stone to properly seal the aperture.
With his blade Swift quickly cut the ropes and silently removed the obstructing panel. Sword in hand the Englishman cautiously prepared to enter. What would he find? Had the woman of his dreams been brutalized? He forced the horrid possibility from his mind. Swift climbed warily into the cell. A gasp of amazement greeted his unexpected arrival. He jerked around and saw Regina huddled in the corner of the room, unharmed, but still clad in her dishevelled sleeping attire - a sleeveless mid-thigh tunic of gauzy material.
Regina’s heart quickened at the sight of Swift. She never thought she’d see him again and his sudden appearance was to her like a blessing from the gods.
Finger to lips for silence Swift quickly knelt beside the amazed woman whose full lips trembled with unspoken words.
“I’m here to get you out,” he whispered, his voice also thick with emotion. “Follow me,” continued Swift urgently, suppressing his desire to embrace Regina passionately. “We could be discovered at any moment.”
A violent shout from below the trapdoor proved his words prophetic - a patrol had discovered the corpses of his foes.
Regina’s hand flew to her lips in fear. Swift cursed, turned. Already, the head of a guard was poking through the opening in the floor. The Englishman lunged. His sword pierced the man’s eye. The warrior tumbled back with a scream of agony. The cell’s door burst open in response to the piercing cry, and the guards outside rushed within.
Steel rang on steel as Swift fiercely battled the intruders with his flying blade. Another guard scrambled through the trapdoor and came at him from behind. Regina acted. With no thought for her own safety she bravely flung herself at the man’s legs, brought him down as the wild Englishman ran one opponent through the throat.
The surviving warrior screamed for help, tried to retreat and bolt the door. Swift hurled his sword at the fellow. The flying blade pierced his thigh. The man went down gushing blood and screaming in agony.
Regina’s panicked cry made Swift turn. He saw her assailant about to stab the woman with his blade. The frantic Englishman lunged, grabbed the Roman’s sword arm to halt the savage thrust. He wrenched the weapon from the warrior’s hand and quickly slew him with it.
Swift hauled Regina to her feet. “Come on,” he gasped.
The couple burst from the cell. Somewhere a gong rang out, sounding the alarm with its brazen cry. The pair dashed through the kitchen. Strabo, who was supervising, gasped in recognition of the fleeing couple. He grabbed a meat clever and swung wildly at Swift. The Englishman blocked the blow, split the fellow’s skull. The man’s assistant lunged at Regina, caught her tunic. Cloth ripped as she tore free and kicked him in the groin. She stumbled as her fallen garment slid from her shoulders and entangled her ankles. Swift caught her, swung his blade wildly, clearing a path through the panicked slaves. Then they were away, madly racing through the villa.
They burst into the abode’s courtyard. A cry rang out. The entire villa was now like a disturbed hornet’s nest. Warriors boiled out of doorways, charged furiously towards them from multiple directions.
“This way,” gasped Swift. Both ran to a high ornamental tower built into the villa’s eastern wall as the furious guards rapidly closed in upon them. Swift skidded to a halt at the foot of the soaring structure.
Regina looked rearward. Fear clutched her like the cruel talons of a hawk. The guards were swiftly closing in. Their faces were as hard as the glinting steel in their fists. The couple’s backs were to the wall - literally. There was no place to run, no place to hide. To the frightened woman it was obvious that in mere seconds grim death would ferociously fall upon them.
As Regina stared at the racing guards Swift thrust his palm violently against a stone. It gave beneath his hand, and in response the secret door commenced to open inwardly. The Englishman turned, grasped Regina about the waist and swung the startled woman behind him.
‘Through the door,” he shouted as he quickly turned and parried a fiercely lunging blade.
Regina squeezed through the widening gap as Swift tried to follow. But the warriors crowded him, preventing him from retreat. Their blades flew at him from multiple directions. The Englishman swung his sword wildly in a spinning blur that knocked aside sharp steel. Then, with reckless desperation he leaped furiously at his foes. They stumbled back before his crazed attack. But other guards were swiftly closing in. In mere seconds he’d fall beneath an avalanche of swords.
Swift turned, sprinted for the open door. Regina, standing on the threshold, saw one guard fling his sword.
“Duck,” she screamed.
The Englishman bent. The blade spun above his head in a narrow miss. It clanged against the door. Then Swift was through the open way. He grabbed a lever, jerked it down. The door slammed swiftly shut in the faces of his raging foes. The warriors collided with it - so close were they behind him.
Swift leaned heavily against the secured portal. He sank to the floor, sweat streaked. His chest heaved from his wild exertions and his head was sunk between his knees. Light filtered down from above, dimly illuminating the cramped vestibule and the spiral stairs leading to the tower’s upper floor.
Regina looked at Swift, her hands across her breasts and loins. The high priestess’ face grew hot with sharp embarrassment now the dire chase was over. She stood before him as naked as a new born babe. But then she observed his state. He had risked his life to save her, and had nearly died many times over because of it. Truly, there was no greater evidence of the sincerity of his love for her.
Outside, she could hear the guards pounding on the thick stone door with the pommels of their swords. She and Swift were trapped, surrounded by enemies. Death hung over them. A vision arose in Regina’s mind - herself and Swift, both naked and locked in an embrace of uninhibited passion. The high priestess’ loins grew as hot as her face. Why not give in to such desires while life yet remained?
But then if they were to die they’d have to face the judgement of the gods. The virginity of the high priestess was sacred. Divine wrath would not just fall upon her, but upon Swift also. Life was unfair. The gods were unfair! Regina groaned. She pressed her hand to her forehead. With an effort she brought her wild tumult under control, and steered her troubled mind into a safer course of thought.
“What is this place?” asked Regina, breaking the silence, “and how did you know of it?. In the absence of a door we’ve always thought this tower was purely ornamental.”
Swift, who had regained his breath, looked up and saw her standing before him in a pose reminiscent of Botticelli’s Venus, but in his eyes far more lovely.
“Divine beauty become flesh,” he murmured to himself in English, her question quite forgotten in that moment of painful longing. And although Regina could not understand the language, the depth of emotion in his voice conveyed to her more meaning than words could ever do.
“I’m naked,” she said, blushing furiously.
“Oh … Yes. I’m sorry,” he replied as he stood, removed his tunic and handed it to her, leaving himself clad only in his loincloth. Swift turned his back as she donned the garment.
“In answer to your question,” he continued. “This tower is a bolthole - a place of safety should the villa be overrun by foes. Aurelius knew of it and the other secret passages that honeycomb this residence. They were constructed very long ago, so long ago that present day people have forgotten their existence. Tell me when your dressed and then we’ll ascend the tower.”
Regina was soon appareled, and after Swift had satisfied himself the the door was secured the couple commenced their climb, the high priestess curious to know how the Englishman planned to execrate them from their seemingly unsolvable predicament.
Shortly, they reached the tower’s upper floor which was a hundred feet above the ground. Scant furniture, thickly coated with centuries of dust stood about the small room, along with a rack of rusty swords and javelins. Swift ignored these items for the moment. Instead, he moved purposefully to a slit window, one of six that pierced the circular chamber’s wall.
Regina watched as he removed a pointed cylinder from his loincloth and also the paraffin lighter concealed there. Swift lit the fuze of the signal rocked and then quickly thrust it out the window. The high priestess jumped in fright as it roared skyward in a plume of smoke and fire.
“What was that?” she gasped.
“A type of message. Scouts from your father’s legion are observing the villa from afar,” he elaborated. “That was a signal to let them know you are safe within this tower. Now, the attack can commence, and we can put an end to the tyranny of Atticus.
**********
Two hours had passed. Swift grimly observed the spreading cracks in the tower’s thick stone door - cracks caused by the incessant pounding of his enemies who sought to break it down. The young man knew with sickening certainty that it couldn’t withstand the savage onslaught for much longer.
Above the pounding of the ram he could hear the din of battle beyond the villa’s walls. The warriors loyal to the king had regrouped at the royal residence. They were now locked in ferocious combat with Maximus’ men. The Legion of the Eagle had arrived half an hour ago, its ranks reinforced by many plebeian volunteers.
The question now was who would win the dire race - the desperate Atticus who sought to again seize Regina as a hostage, or Maximus who strove to rescue them. If Professor Miller had had time to manufacture more gunpowder victory for the rebels would be certain, but the swiftness of events had precluded that and triumph was now uncertain.
Another hairline crack zigzagged through the thick granite door. Swift cursed, hurriedly retreated up the tower. Regina was waiting for him at the stairwell’s head, a rusty sword gripped firmly in her hand and a dusty javelin in the other.
“They are almost through,” gasped Swift as he halted beside her and seized another javelin from ten others that leaned against the wall.
Regina was certain the end had come upon them. She was about to reveal her feelings for the man. But a crash of falling stone stymied her words of love as did the quickly following rush of sandalled feet pounding up the stairs.
An enemy warrior came into view as he rounded the spiraling way. Swift cast his javelin at the advancing man. The fellow raised his shield and the missile crashed harmlessly against it. But Regina had also quickly flung her weapon and the speeding projectile pierced the Roman’s thigh.
The warrior shrilly screamed. He tumbled back, bowling over several of his companions following close upon his heels. Men cursed, slipped on spilled blood, regained their footing. The injured men were thrust callously aside. The survivors advanced with greater caution up the stairs.
For Swift and his companion the world descended into a blur of angry faces and stabbing swords, thrusting javelins and the screams of dying men. The battling couple held their ground. Their foes could come at them but singly due to the narrowness of the stairs. This advantage, however, was negated by the enemy’s numerical superiority. The foe came on in seeming endlessness, like waves beating upon the shore.
An hour passed. Swift’s leaden limbs now trembled with fatigue. His breath came in ragged gasps and his body was streaked with sweat. Regina was in much the same condition. Another Roman, full of fight, came at the flagging couple. Swift blocked the fellow’s wild cut. But the force of his opponent’s blow sent Swift’s sword flying from his weakened grasp.
Weaponless, the young man stumbled back. With a triumphant shout his opponent leaped across the threshold, blade striking with the swiftness of a thunderbolt. But Regina was the faster of the two. She thrust her javelin at the fellow’s legs. He tripped upon it. The warrior crashed face down on the floor. The high priestess quickly stabbed him in the neck.
Swift managed to grasp his fallen sword, but his hand was trembling so badly from fatigue that he could barely hold the weapon. He turned and despairingly saw more enemies racing up the stairs. He stumbled to Regina’s side. So tired were they that both could scarcely stand. They looked at each other and knew this was the end.
The Romans charged into the room, forcing the exhausted couple to retreat. Their backs were pressed against the wall. Regina flung herself on Swift in a desperate bid to shield him with her body as the foe raced wildly forward to take the girl and savagely slay the man.
A terrific explosion suddenly rent the air with its thundering fury. All within the chamber started violently. The rushing warriors halted in their tracks. Swift smiled. The terrific detonation could only mean one thing - Miller had achieved the seemingly impossible and had made more gunpowder in record time.
“That is the magic thunder weapon,” he said to the startled Romans. “The Villa’s gate has no doubt been blasted to kindling like a lightening struck tree. As we speak Maximus’ warriors will be pouring through the breach. It is the king he wants to slay, not you. Surrender, and I’ll ensure he spares your lives. You cannot hope to prevail against black sorcery.”
One of the warriors ran to a window and peered through it. He swore violently.
“By the gods,” he exclaimed. “It’s true. The gate is a smoking ruin. Our men are in complete disarray. Maximus’ warriors are storming the compound, slaughtering all who resist.”
“You’ve been defeated,” reiterated Swift. “Don’t die for a lost cause. Surrender and I’ll see your lives are spared.”
“My father will be merciful,” added Regina. “You have not harmed me. He has no reason to slay you. I swear I will add my pleas for clemency to that of my companion. Throw down your weapons so that you may return alive to the loving embrace of family and friends.”
The warriors looked at each other. Swift and Regina tensed. It was clear that some were still for fighting. Time seemed to stop in breathless silence during the tautness of the moment. Then one fellow cast his sword upon the floor and the spell was broken.
“I think Maximus will make a better king,” said the man who had thrown his blade away. His words were like a catalyst, and in mere seconds other weapons clattered to the floor.
It was over.
**********
Swift looked over his shoulder as he steered the motor launch, gazing forlornly at the island’s shore as it disappeared in the swirling mist of the boiling lake. His heart was crushed with leaden sorrow. He would never see Regina, the woman he loved, ever again.
Maximus was triumphant. Regina had been whisked from his presence by her father’s warriors and taken to an undisclosed place of safety. Attacus, the king, had been found hiding under a bed. Merciless hands of the victors had dragged the cringing tyrant forth. Maximus had unhesitatingly struck off the whimpering despot’s head with a single blow of his sword.
Shortly thereafter, the nobles had been summoned. The sycophantic creatures had literally grovelled at Maximus’ feet as he sat ensconced upon the former king’s throne, the tyrant’s severed head on a golden platter at his feet.
Maximus had listened with undisguised contempt to their fawning oaths of loyalty. Chief among the grovelers was was Magnus Cassias, the physician. Swift felt like booting the man in the ribs in revenge for the mistreatment he and professor Miller had suffered at his hands, but had to be content instead with seeing his enemy thoroughly humiliated.
The embarrassing scene of the boot-licking fawners was soon over, and the nobles disdainfully dismissed with a stern warning that any treachery or rebellion on their part would be met with quick and brutal justice.
Swift had then been summoned for a private audience with Maximus. The young man replayed the scene in his mind. The new king had come straight to the point without preamble.
“Do you still affirm that you love my daughter,” he bluntly asked. His words were tinged with dangerous anger, but Swift saw no point in denying his feelings for Regina.
“I do,” he openly admitted.
Maximus’ visage darkened further with wrath. He snapped his fingers and two warriors, who had been concealed behind a large tapestry, quickly emerged and laid rough hands upon the startled Englishman.
“The high priestess is sacred,” replied Maximus, severely. “Her virginity is sacrosanct, with death as a punishment should she break her vows. That you were with her alone, unchaperoned, has set tongues wagging; tongues that I have had to silence with dire threats. I cannot have my daughter imperiled or my family shamed by scandal. It would undermine my position as king. If the commoners discovered these facts and that I did nothing about it they’d see me as a hypocrite, little better than Atticus.
“I should have you executed for your impious feelings, but I will be merciful. You saved my daughter, and so in gratitude I will spare your life and exile you instead. You and your companion will leave this island immediately. If you, or any of your kind ever return you will be slain on sight and without mercy. We now have knowledge of your thunder-powder, remember that.”
And with these harsh words the stunned Englishman was quickly dragged from the presence of the unwavering king.
Swift and professor Miller had been taken without ceremony to the pathway that descended to the isles rocky beach. Here, at the head of the trail, they found more warriors awaiting with their modified diving dress. Aurelius was also present to bid them farewell. It was at least a small consolation that they could say goodbye to a friend.
“Things look bleak now,” consoled the philosopher, “But I’m confident you’ll find that joy will come again to you. I wish I could come with you and see the wonders that you’ve described. But my place is here. I think I can persuade Maximus to introduce reforms. He seems amenable to my ideas.”
Swift smiled weakly. In his current state of mind he couldn’t see much of a future for himself without Regina by his side. Professor Miller was wise enough not to utter any banal words of comfort.
The sad farewells were soon concluded and the Englishmen, their gear now donned, forlornly departed.
Swift brought his mind to the present. The lake’s shoreline was emerging from the mist. He saw the expedition’s men pushing another boat to the waterline. No doubt this was a search party whose arrival had been delayed by the necessity of having to find a suitable craft, and then acid proofing it.
The men looked up at the sound of the approaching boat and began waving excitedly. They raced to the water’s edge and eagerly caught the line Swift tossed them. In no time at all the motor launch was hauled well ashore by helping hands. The relieved men gathered around the two adventurers. Conversation was not easily possible. All were clad in protective clothing to shield them from the close proximity of the boiling lake’s noxious gases. One man pointed dramatically at the rear of the boat.
Swift and the professor turned. A tarpaulin that had been tossed into a corner of the stern was moving as if some living thing was under it. The two adventurers looked at each other, then Swift stepped to the canvas and hauled it back. A figure, clad in the protective clothing of the Romans, was thus exposed.
Quickly, Swift knelt by the person. Two eyes peered through the gas mask at him, eyes that looked startlingly familiar. Heart pounding, he swept the figure into his arms, jumped from the beached craft and raced clear of the boiling water’s toxic emissions.
At a safe distance Swift set the person down and quickly removed his helmet. The stranger followed his example, and in mere seconds was not strange to him at all. Regina stood smilingly before him. Swift was too overcome by powerful emotions to utter any coherent words.
“Regina,” he managed to gasp out at last. “It’s really you.”
“Aurelius helped arrange my escape,” she explained. “I guessed what my father planned to do. The thought of never seeing you again, the man I love, was an unbearable torment, so I have renounced my vows and duties as high priestess by letter. My father will be furious when he reads it. But I can no longer live my life to please him, and so here I am.”
Swift smiled. He gathered Regina in his arms. They kissed passionately, eagerly, oblivious to the expedition team who had followed at a more sedately pace. Professor Miller grinned. He turned to his puzzled companions and began a lengthy and very interesting explanation.
The End