The Lost Centurion (The Immortals Book 1) (16 page)

Diana’s screams never left her mouth. She knew she should have fought the hands that grabbed her, but she let them drag her useless body through several rooms. The vampires’ fingers sunk into her skin, keeping the cruel hold tight as if they were worried she would try to flee. Finally, they reached a dimly lit place, where they threw her onto a floor covered in rugs and pillows, then exited and closed a big, carved wooden door behind them. She stared into the pink and golden threads of the carpet for a long time. A bug with small, translucent wings lazily flew back and forth before her nose, emitting a low buzz that lolled her enough to doze off. Only one thought was left in her mind. She had betrayed Marcus.

****

From his forced angle, Marcus saw a full day progress while he was still paralyzed and lying on that stretch of the beach. The light changed from the pale luminescence of the twilight, to the warm sun of midmorning, to the much warmer noon rays. His eyes, forced to be open for so long, soon stung and his vision blurred, until he thought he had started hallucinating when images of a captured Diana passed before him. By midafternoon the sun started setting, and his body had absorbed enough sunrays to start healing. When the shadow from the nearby pine tree reached his head, his eyes had regained the ability to blink and moisten themselves, giving him the gift of sight back. None of the arrays of people working at the villa had ventured down to the beach. None had come to his rescue.

When he felt his feet getting wet, he knew the tide was changing and soon he would be submerged by seawater. The succulent’s flowers he had seen blossom before his eyes in red and orange florets were already withering. The water reached his calves. Sooner than he was ready for, the ground he had been lain on receded and he sank in a mixture of muddy sand and salty sprays. Wave after wave he went under, barely able to catch what little breath he could when his lungs were still constricted by the poison. When the salty water filled his eyes, Marcus felt as if he had been hit by a sandstorm and all the grains of salt in the beach had been blown into his eye sockets. He saw white dots dancing before his eyelids, but realized he could not only blink, but also slightly move his neck. He tried to move his fingers and was rewarded with subtle movements. But the sea was inexorably progressing in covering the rest of the beach.

He couldn’t close his mouth shut yet and the seawater insinuated itself beyond his lips, filling his throat. The salt burnt his tongue and crept between the small cuts in his gums. He hoped his head was positioned higher than the rest of his body, but the tide was eroding the beach quickly and soon it wouldn’t matter anymore.

Diana had been kidnapped before his eyes and he was now drowning in less than a foot of water. As an immortal he was difficult to kill, his strength and stamina would maintain him in most situations where a mere human would have died. He could normally hold his breath for more than an hour and slow his heartbeats accordingly, but the poison had stripped him of his ability to control his own body. Even if the lengthy exposure to the sun was helping to rid him of the toxin, it could be all for nothing if he was dragged by the tide back to the sea and into the darkness. He didn’t care he would die a long, excruciating death though. The idea he had failed to protect her tormented him. So many times he had invoked the gods to terminate his punishment on earth and set him free. But not like this. Not when his freedom had cost an innocent her life. Not when this innocent was Diana.

A gurgled sound escaped from his lips when he cursed himself and the gods who had finally decided to listen to him. Water washed over him. A sea of white foam engulfed him, and he found his voice again.

He foolishly screamed, “Not now!” then gulped down another mouthful of water and sand.

The sea was claiming him as it had taken possession of the land. His whole head was submerged. The same loop of memories played the nightmare from the day before again. And again. Eyes covered by the white froth of the crashing waves, he saw Diana beaten and looking at him, terrified. The men’s hands touched her. Their fingers marred her skin. She called his name, begged the men to leave him alone. Her kidnappers laughed, tearing at her clothing and exposing her body to humiliate her. Marcus’s anger built with every image. It had been growing inside of him since those men had left with her. He couldn’t die and leave her to her fate. He wouldn’t lose her.

He focused on his rage and forced his limp body to action. His right arm shot forward and his fingers reached for a root that had been dug out by the constant motion of the tide. He pulled up his torso with great fatigue, but didn’t stop until his nose and mouth were above water. Panting and retching, he heaved himself to the side and threw up until his throat was so sore it bled. Then he passed out or thought he had passed out. Triggered by his present condition, painfully detailed memories played for him and wouldn’t let him rest.

The cuirass was cutting the circulation on Marcus’s right arm. He had trained his field army the whole night, wearing full armor, the bronze shield, and his spatha—the broadsword his father in law had gifted him when he had married Aurelia. He had led his men for thirty kilometers through treacherous paths, moats, up and down hills, and when they had reached their camp he had ordered them to build a palisade wall. He always led by example and he had hauled logs like everybody else.

The focale, the scarf he wore around his neck to prevent the chafing from the constant contact with the armor, was soaked through with his sweat and smelled. The fibula fastening his cloak over his shoulder banged against the armor with every movement he made, causing him headache. Or maybe it was dehydration. Or not having slept or eaten for more than twelve hours.

His men had grown weary of him. It pained him to have lost their unconditional love, but since Aurelia had died, life hadn’t made sense to him anymore. His recklessness had won him sympathies in the higher spheres though. He had never set out to be promoted, but it happened twice in a short period of time and he had been given a cohort. Rumors had come back to him that there were wagers about him being the most plausible candidate to be appointed as the youngest to command the senior century, the whole cohort—thousands of men.

Once, he would have daydreamed of commanding the legion. Now, he only wanted to lose himself in a hard day of working followed by a long night of drinking. In three years since Aurelia’s death, he had drunk himself to stupor every night to no avail. He hadn’t had a woman in all that time. When his soldiers started sending handsome young men to his tent, he realized they were worried for him. He didn’t care enough to correct them. He gave the young men a place to sleep and a few hours respite from a job they had not chosen for themselves. Sometimes, he even gave them his bed; he spent his nights elsewhere in any case.

He opened his eyes several times before he woke. Mosquitoes and other nocturnal bugs wouldn’t let him sleep, but he was too tired to swat them away. By the time he could string two complete thoughts together, the light of dawn was illuminating the sea in a silvery-pink light, and he itched everywhere. Both his arms were embracing the tree root and it took him some effort to disengage his stiff limbs. When he tried to sit up, his vision blurred and his blood rushed toward his extremities. He fell back to the ground, his left cheek landing over the uneven terrain. Something hard and spikey cut into his skin, and through the sharp pain, it gave him clarity of thought. He needed water, but he had to move first.

The lights from the house spilled down to the beach, reminding him that drinking water was a few minutes away, but to reach it, he had to climb the steep path with the treacherous stairs carved into the rock walls. He raised his knees, one leg at a time, then pushed on the soles of his feet with his palms down on the sand for balance. At the fourth try, he succeeded in standing upright, but it lasted the span of a few inconsistent heartbeats. He went down like a falling statue, heavy and unbending, and he acquired a new set of scrapes and cuts on his exposed skin.

He spat the blood that had pooled at the back of his throat and resumed his fight against gravity. The sky was light and a few scattered clouds passed over a white-yellow morning sun when he managed to reach the beginning of the winding trail. He made it there mostly on all fours, dragging his legs behind, but had to sit and rest on the first step to catch his breath. When he lifted one hand over his eyes to shield them from the blinding sunrays, he saw two men coming out of the pine forest.

They wore non-descriptive clothes, but were too bulky and moved too stealthily to be Alexander’s gardeners. Marcus crawled backward and flattened against the rocky wall, all of his senses straining to catch any movement the intruders made. From the safety of his spot, he peeked over the low wall bordering the first section of the trail. The two men stood over the shallow hole his body had created on the sand during the tide.

Marcus knew that his slow escape had left traces even a kid could follow. Adrenaline finally made an appearance in his system and, still crouching for fear of being seen, he slowly back stepped until he reached the next turn in the path. He made sure the men couldn’t see him from the beach and left the trail. Hoping he wouldn’t dislodge any pebble, he climbed over the side of the cliff, using the sturdy bushes covering the rocky terrain to push himself up to a natural ledge. From there, he cautiously followed a path more suitable for goats than humans. One step after the other, his boots soaked wet and heavy with sand, he climbed toward the villa. He had chosen his route wisely because the northern flank of the cliff turned away from the beach and hid him from sight. The obvious problem with his decision was that the natural path was at least three times longer than the manmade trail.

The orange trees’ foliage was already in sight from below, when Marcus heard steps ahead. The two men had run all the way up, looking for him. He ducked under one of the oleander bushes and waited for the steps to move away from the ledge over his head.

“The bastard can’t be gone.”

“No, he’s still here.”

The voices sounded too close and Marcus squatted lower.

“Do you have your syringe ready?”

“Yes. We’ll finish him in no time. He’s in no condition to fight.”

Any other time, Marcus would have confronted the two thugs, but they were right. He could barely stand and needed whatever was left of his strength to escape. If he didn’t have water soon, he wouldn’t be able to make any plans. His thoughts were fogged once again. After that sudden boost of energy, fatigue had reclaimed his body and mind. Only his fears for Diana kept him awake.

“The poison is still in his system. Once we give him a second dose, he won’t be in any shape to fight back.”

The last statement was followed by receding steps. Marcus sighed in relief. For a moment, he had thought they knew where he was and were playing with him. He forced his body to remain in the same crouching position for more than five minutes to be sure they had gone, then moved on the path. Instead of going up, he trailed along the curb and moved farther north of the garden and toward the entrance to the property, passing the house.

His plan was to reach the main road and hitch a ride down to Amalfi. As soon as he peeked over the low wall bordering the edge on that side of the gardens, he realized he was trapped. One man was running toward the gate at the end of the private lane, the other was waiting for him, pacing along the side of the house. He considered using the big terracotta vases dotting the street to cover his escape, but the man closer to the house would have spotted him the moment he jumped over the wall.

The sun was higher in the sky, and although the natural light was hard at work healing him, Marcus’s tolerance to the warmth was dwindling. Salt had stuck his clothes to his skin, and the constant itching from the bug bites was magnified by the sharp pain from the numerous cuts and the swelling of clotted blood where he had been hit. He welcomed the hurt that kept him awake, but he wasn’t sure how long he could keep operating under those conditions. His military training under the greatest army the world had ever known kicked in, and he sat against the wall to assess his situation.

He was alive. The poison still slowed him down, but he had the advantage of operating during the day with the sun on his side. The two men were waiting to catch him at different places. He needed them somewhere else, possibly together. His heart raced and his breath came in quick pants. It was imperative he get to fresh water. The severe muscle spasms could be attributed to several factors. His metabolism had probably depleted all his sugar supply long ago.

Thinking took a toll on him, but his mind kept showing him images of Diana. A movie of the time they had spent together played before his eyes. Starting with the night he had rescued her to the moment he had discovered her passion for antique cars. At that memory, his addled brain stopped the replay. He recalled the geography of Alexander’s villa and a hastily hatched plan formed in his mind.

He focused on the here and now, took long gulps of air that felt hotter than a moment earlier, raised his head just above the low wall, waited until the pacing man was at the opposite corner from where he wanted to go, then sprang into action. Heart pounding in his chest, he cut a beeline toward the façade of the house that overlooked the back gardens and the beach. Had he been in better form, Marcus would have tried to be inconspicuous, but as it was, he went in like a bull, head low and all reasoning lost when he heard the first shot. He followed the contour of the house and his legs pumped in time with his heartbeats as he headed toward the French doors opening to the immaculate backyard.

The shots were fired closer.

“He’s getting inside the house!” the pacer called.

Marcus entered the house and ran across the atrium, hoping both men would follow, but not so fast that they would see him disappear behind the panel in the wall under the staircase. Fatigue mixed with pain led him to stumble upon the furniture disseminated in his route to the corridor connecting the house to the garage. More shots were fired, now inside the atrium. A chair was blown into smithereens, a coffee table lost two legs, and antique vases fell and broke. He slid inside the corridor and lowered the lever on the wall to seal the place.