Prologue
A
Husband, a Sword, and a Curse
AD 447: Roman Province
of Dacia Ripensis (Bulgaria)—Month of Julius
Waves of burnt grass
fell away as Lucius Valerius Marcian stomped through the battlefield.
Behind him, his surviving cavalry soldiers—the Roman VIII Augusta
Equites—found their horses abandoned when the fighting went to
foot. Marcian stopped and looked around.
Toward the west, bold
yellow rays stretched from the late afternoon sun across gray clouds
gathering overhead. They shined with an ominous brightness that
rattled through him, making him uneasy—on guard. The battle against
the Huns had been fierce. Both sides suffered heavy losses, but their
Roman general had died on the field, a brutal blow for the Romans.
Shouting victory, the Huns had moved east toward a nearby city, and
greater plunders.
A mild breeze swept
past him. He winced. A stench floated from the barbarian and Roman
corpses around them. The smell of death wasn’t new to him. But even
now, after many battles and bodies at his feet, the foul odor, the
sight of bloated flesh, and gaping wounds were still difficult to
ignore.
Marcian swallowed hard
and turned from the wind. He searched the distance. On a small hill,
he spied Apollo. The horse grazed beside a cluster of bushes that
circled a large oak tree. Sweat dripped from Marcian’s curls and
onto his brow while splatters of blood and skin stuck to his tunic,
helmet, and leather armor. The summer heat had laughed at the
slaughter, adding a cruel torment to the
battle, but they had persevered, fought tight, outmaneuvered—and
lived. He would see Arria again.
The other horses stood
farther away, and the men fanned in that direction. Marcian grinned.
It was just like Apollo to go in his own direction and very similar
to his master, who often struggled with his own independent nature.
Even the girl he chose to marry was not the average Roman woman.
Arria had been raised unconventionally. Her father had provided her
with a man’s education, not just the domestic arts taught to women.
As a result, many in Rome respected her for her sharp wit, powers of
deduction, and diplomacy. Marcian’s friends warned that she might
be a difficult wife to control, but he had no desire to rule over
her; he just wanted to live with and lay beside her. He loved her
tenacity, her keen mind, and most important to him, they laughed
together.
Marcian ran up the hill
while Apollo continued to graze. Suddenly, he stumbled and went
sprawling face down onto the ground. Something solid had tripped him.
He rose to his knees and shook his head. Running his fingers over his
forehead, he glanced behind him. A small black object jutted out from
the grass at an angle.
Scrambling to his feet,
he went and crouched over it. To the eye and touch, it looked and
felt like an iron ring pushing through the earth, eroded by weather
and time. Marcian drew his knife and scratched the exterior. Hardened
dirt stuck to the surface, forcing him to chip it away. The more he
scraped, the larger the object grew. After several more attempts, the
ring appeared attached to a metal slab. Marcian looked around. The
field was quiet. Most of his men had retrieved their horses and
returned to the field camp. Roman bodies needed to be stripped and
buried. Not far from him, he spotted his centurion riding in his
direction. He waved, and the Roman soldier trotted his horse toward
him. A barbarian by birth, the tall, husky blond Goth, Darius, wore
only a tunic with a thick leather belt, boots, and no helmet. He lent
a sharp contrast to Marcian’s shorter, rugged build and dark
coloring.
“Darius, help me!”
Marcian stood and shouted. “I’ve found something odd buried in
the grass.”
The centurion rode up
the hill and jumped from his horse. “What is it, sir?” he asked.
“An iron ring
attached to a lid or door, but I want to know what’s inside. Tie up
my horse. Then go to the camp and bring back two shovels.”
Marcian returned to his
knees while Darius tethered Apollo and then rode away. Thunder pealed
in the distance. He looked toward the sky. A few sun rays still
pierced the clouds, but the moving layers looked darker, heavier. He
raked his knife faster. With a strong hand, he brushed away the
earth. Marcian sat back on his haunches, gazed at the ring, and
waited. Soon, Darius arrived with the shovels. They dug along the
perimeter in opposite directions. Within minutes, they uncovered two
hinges on what was clearly a bronze frame. Whatever lay beneath the
earth was larger than Marcian had imagined.
In unison, they fought
feverishly to unearth the mysterious object and beat the threatening
rain. With the last layer of dirt gone, both men stopped to rest.
Embedded in the hill’s grassy slope, a three by six-foot rusted
iron door shone dark brown in the light. Darius sat on a nearby rock.
Marcian took a breath, removed his helmet, and dropped it on the
ground.
“How strange,”
Marcian commented, pulling a short scarf from around his neck. He
wiped his brow and then tied it around his forehead.
Darius nodded, then
pursed his lips and scratched his jaw. “Looks heavy, I wonder if it
can be opened?” With a quick laugh, he added. “I brought some
mead to strengthen us.”
“Good man!”
Darius retrieved a
pouch hanging on his saddle and tossed it to Marcian, who took a swig
and handed the pouch back to the centurion. Darius took a long drink.
Marcian looked at the
sky. “The sun is hidden now. Let’s open this door—to the devil
knows what—and be done before the rain falls.” He grabbed the
handle, and Darius used the shovel to pry open the door from its
frame.
The first attempt
proved futile. Their breath labored, they heaved and groaned as
thunder rolled over them.
“Balls! This is
stubborn,” Darius hissed between clenched teeth.
Marcian tugged at the
handle. Darius wedged the shovel’s blade between the door and the
frame. The door hinges creaked, giving them hope. Their muscles
straining, they braced their legs, bent forward, and yanked. The door
screeched like a warning owl. “Harder,” Marcian gasped. Darius
bellowed a curse.
The door suddenly gave
way, almost knocking Marcian backward. He steadied himself, took a
step, and looked down. A dark hole leading into a tunnel gaped back
at him.
“Shit! What’s
that?” Darius spat.
“How the hell do I
know,” Marcian replied gruffly, but I’m going to find out.”
Darius nodded, swiped
the pouch from the ground, and took another drink. “Will you go
first, Tribune?”
Marcian laughed.
“Centurion, I won’t let my rank trump your lack of courage.”
With a last look into the pit, he jumped in. The edge of the earth
came to his waist, and he knelt to crawl in deeper. A few feet ahead
of him, he saw bone fragments, a partial jaw with several teeth, and
a bundle of deteriorated leather. A shield rested nearby.
Marcian’s heart beat
faster. He looked closer. A metal box poked through the bones and
animal skin. A sudden rush of dread washed over him. Sweat trickled
from beneath the scarf covering his brow. He paused but spied a metal
grip. Marcian quickly yanked the box and scurried backward, dragging
the case to the opening. Darius gave him a hand, and Marcian jumped
out. Together, they reached into the hole and lifted the box onto the
ground.
They stood beside it
and stared. The box looked about three feet long, a foot wide and
half as deep. Marcian tore away the decomposed leather clinging to
the outside. On closer inspection, the case proved to be silver,
heavily tarnished. A lock secured the lid. Marcian snatched a remnant
of the aged leather and rubbed the top of the metal. A short row of
engraved and unrecognizable letters or symbols, dulled by time,
appeared. He frowned. The case seemed quite old, perhaps ancient.
“Shall we open it?”
Darius asked, his eyes shining.
“Better to open it
here than in camp with many around us. Use the shovel.”
Darius nodded and swung
the blade down against the lock. Yielding to the force of the
clanging iron tool, the lock snapped open. Marcian planted his feet
firmly behind the box, at the base, and clamped his fingers on the
lid’s edge. Darius pressed one foot on the front side and used his
knife to pry at it while Marcian pulled from behind. The rusted lid
budged a little but groaned its refusal.
“Lift!” Marcian
barked, and his jaw tightened. The lid creaked one more time—then
gave in and opened.
A whoosh escaped
the box trailed by a faint odor of eucalyptus. Both men flinched with
the sensation and glanced at one another. Inside, an object wrapped
in grayed linen cloth fit snugly into the container.
“This gets more
mysterious by the moment,” Marcian said softly.
Darius scratched his
head. “What is it?”
“Let’s find out;
the day is dying, and a raindrop just brushed my cheek.” Marcian
kneeled and lifted the bundle from its case. With a pivot and his
arms extended, he gently placed it on the ground. As Marcian
unwrapped the object, pieces of the linen crumbled. A soft flash of
light burst through the fabric and struck his eyes; he blinked. When
he looked again, a sword, simple in form but strangely beautiful lay
nestled in the cloth.