The men rode up to the caves in the early morning, a thin line that crawled over the dark earth. They ride single-file, to spread out across less of an area, and wore dark cloaks to hide them from sight. Their clothes were the muddy browns and greys of their stony land, and they seemed to blend into the hills as they rode.
Even so, the man at the forefront of the line thought, it was still a risk coming this close, this far, this quickly. As the sun rose, his yellow face peering above the jagged mountains, they would only become more and more visible. Should the Romans catch them here, it would all be for naught. But he had to know, and he had never been one to let things like odds and chances stand in his way. He had been a gambler since youth, and Fortuna had always stood by side. Until now.
Gemino of the Pentri paused a moment to look out over his land, his home. He had not been born in these specific hills, but he knew them well, had come to love them these last years. And this land, this land of stone and steel that had borne him into the world, now bled and cracked beneath the whip of tyrants — and one tyrant above all, the conqueror Sertorius. But even the general and his legions were but symptoms of a greater illness, he had come to realize, a sickness which had taken the Etruscans and the Latins, a vile plague that now hung cloying over the world — a plague by the name of Rome.
Once, he had been sure he could drive this plague from his homeland, but the long years had weathered his resolve. The people had grown resentful, bitter. Few remembered the old songs and tales, and instead of holding fast to their people and their culture, the old ways that had kept them strong when so many others had fallen, they thought only of their bellies and the coming winter.
He could not fault them their selfishness, but could they not see it was damning them all? Now the sickness had reached into the very heart of their land, and Gemino no longer knew if he had what it took to repulse it again. Sulla has been a monster, all fire and blood, easy to rally the people against, but this Sertorius was more insidious. He and his cronies wormed into hearts and minds, stealing not Samnium from the Samnites, but the Samnites from themselves.
He would not let his people die so easily. The name of the Samnites would, at the very least, not fade weakly into history. Rome would weep bitter tears long ere she ever saw the Samnites slaves, and he would go to his death with his gods on his tongue and a sword in his hand, on the lands of his fathers and their father's fathers.
It was another hour of riding before the line of horses rode up to the caves. These caves seemed for all the world unremarkable among the dozens of others littered through the hills, save for the two flickering braziers outside the entrance. As Gemino slid off of his steed, two of his men hoisted the calf he'd been carrying off of his steed. The beast was half dead already, but it lived enough for his purposes. Swiftly, he had them lay the calf on the rock in front of the cave, then drew a knife from within his cloak and unceremoniously slit the beasts' throat. In almost the same motion, he drew the blade across his own fist, then sprang up and held the bloodstained blade over the brazier's flame.
"Blood of beast and blood of man, given to the earth. Blood of yoke and blood of kin, given to the flame. I beseech thee, tongue of the divine, look upon a humble son of thy land. Grant me thy blessing, the gift of the god."
There was long silence after that. Some in the band muttered that he had been to quick, that the ritual was meant to be a thing done well, or not at all, but just when they began to truly waver, a deep voice issued from the dark mouth of the cave.
"Enter, supplicant."
He needed no further summons. With a final glance at his men, Gemino stepped into the lip of the cave. There was no sign of whoever had spoken in the dimly lit cavern, but he gathered his cloak around him and proceeded down the winding path. After a few moments of walking, he entered a dark cavern, absent of even the few lamps that had lit his way thus far. He knew this was all meant to intimidate, to awe simple farmers with mystery and fear, and so he waited. A sickly smell hung in the air, clouding his mind and making his thoughts sluggish.
And he waited.
And waited.
And waited.
Finally, after an interminable time that could have been hours or days, he heard the groaning of rock above. A single shaft of sunlight fell into the cavern from a newly uncovered grate in the ceiling. The rock and the angle gave the light a distinct reddish tinge to it, an unearthly quality that struck him every time he had made his way here in the past, and one that struck him now.
He was prepared for what the light fell on, but it unnerved him all the same.
A woman, dead at least some ten months, sat before him in a chair of carven stone some twenty feet above the ground. Her face was well-preserved, but the lips had begun to sink in, and her head tilted at an unnatural angle. Her white eyes glinted in the light — for the flesh had long since rotted, replaced by carved gemstones fitted into hollow sockets that stared unnervingly into his own. It was from this corpse which the sickly smell emanated, and Gemino, though he had known it was coming, had to fight to keep from gagging.
The dead woman, dressed in purest white, stared at him for a few long moments, and then another grate shifted above with the grinding of rock. A beam of light, natural and whole, fell on a lower chair, this one of a height with Gemino's eyes. In the chair sat a woman, dressed like the last, but there the similarities ended. This one lived and breathed, and, from the smirk on her face, had enjoyed watching Gemino squirm.
He did not recognize her, but that was to be expected. The acolytes, recruited from neighboring towns, served in the shadows until their mistress died, at which point the eldest of them would replace her and sit beneath her corpse until her own death, when the cycle would repeat.
This one was younger than most, with fair eyes and olive skin. Her dark hair fell almost to her knees, and as she leaned back in her stone chair, the old rebel felt his skin prickle. He hated these women, and indeed he thought most of them charlatans and soothsayers. But not this one. Her eyes, like those of the dead woman, bored into his own, into his very soul, and he felt his throat seize despite himself as he lowered himself into the ritual position.
"Oh most auspicious and revered Sibyl," he began. "Most holy and wise voice of the God, unparalleled tongue of the divine —"
"Do skip the flattery." Her voice was amused, as if he was telling a joke she already knew the end to.
His brow furrowed. The oracles were usually sticklers for theatrics and pomp. Thrown off his pace, he began again.
"I have come to request a prophecy, Sibyl. I beg thee, I beseech thee: tell me how I might defeat my enemies, and tell me of the fate of our race."
She smiled, and showed her teeth as if to laugh. But then her body grew still and rigid, her eyes rolled up into her head, and she spoke a Greek verse in the voice of the God.
Too late you learn that wit is naught
And, like the beast when it is caught,
Fly when else you might have fought.
Rome yet may fall, but what the cost?
All will be one before the frost,
Or stand apart, and see it lost.
The Roman breaks before thy name
And victory wins you endless fame
Yet one piece may lose the game:
He who sees you overthrown
Melts with tongue the heart of stone,
And stands apart, though not alone.
Dark of eye and dark of hair,
Wisdom's child, the soldier's heir:
His the fate of Rome to bear.
She fell back, and her eyes slid down, as knowing and piercing as ever.
"You have your answer, Gemino of the Pentri. Go forth."
He stared, stunned. The words burned into his mind, beating a staccato rhythm inside his skull. Victory, but at what cost? Victory before winter, and only one who might stop him.
One dark of hair...? But the general Sertorius was fair of hair and skin, or so it was famously told. Who might...
His eyes widened, and the Sibyl broke into a loud, jubilant laugh, cold and cruel in its' mirth. Her laughter followed him as he turned and ran from the chamber, his feet pounding underneath him as he dashed back down the winding passage and out into the warm summer morning, one name pounding in his skull, echoing in his mind, ringing in the Sibyl's voice as she laughed.
Atellus.
