All throughout the long march south both armies played an intricate game of hide and go seek as one might see a child play. There was one big difference however: this was no game. People died during the skirmishes between both the Goths and Romans with death claiming both the innocent and the soldiers irregardless of who they might be.

The weather was hot and getting hotter the further south they went; the terrain rough and hard on the horses. It was a good place to hide and attack an unsuspecting group of soldiers who had been sent out to scout ahead of the approaching army. Darius put the terrain to good use hiding his men in the mountains or lying in wait for the Romans to come through a small pass before attacking.

The skirmishes were often brief but violent as blood spilled into the small streams and men fought and died upon their commander’s orders. Often Darius defied the odds and slipped away from the grasp of Stilicho before suffering any great loss of men, equipment and horses much to the Roman’s chagrin.

Stilicho had given him a nickname: Snake. And to his mind Darius was just that, a snake that needed to be wiped out forever providing he could catch him and destroy his army. He sighed as he looked around the stark yet beautiful landscape of Greece and remembering other battles that had been fought here, other men who had died, other losses of other general’s reputations and lives when they failed to win a great victory for Rome. Where did they go this time? he wondered as he shielded his eyes with one hand to look off into the distance. And how long would it take them to find them again? What he needed was an edge, an advantage to make sure that Darius would not slip away ever again without his knowing about where they intended to go and what their plans were.

He paced to and from, hands clasped behind his back as he thought. He knew that he needed someone to infiltrate their army, someone who would pass as a Goth—preferably someone with the fair hair many of the Goths seemed to possess. “Constantine!” he bellowed. “Assemble the men. I want to inspect them.”

Constantine’s brow knitted together in anger at the order; his mouth thinned while his eyes shot a killing blow if such a thing had been possible towards his co-commander. He jerked around the reins and went to assemble the men as he was ordered to do.

Alaric woke up, blinking and stared in the darkness towards his hand, which trembled violently. He rubbed at his eyes with his one good hand then sat up knowing what would be coming next. For some time he had experienced massive bouts of both dizziness and nausea that sickened him but in the time that they had been on the move towards Athens another symptom had arisen: seizures.

The tremors slowly crept up his arm as the muscles stiffened and cramped then followed across his shoulders until finally he fell to the earth and lay there as his body jerked violently in spasms and his eyes rolled back into his head so that only the whites showed. A small dribble of saliva dripped from one corner of his mouth and he grunted and uttered noises like a pig but he was unable to stop himself from doing it.

After a few minutes that seemed to have been stretched out into hours, his seizures slowed then ceased altogether and he lay gasping for breath. Never had he experienced such as one as this before and he hoped he never had to again. He shook his head to clear it but the dizziness and blurred vision remained with him.

Closing his eyes he reached out to feel around for the animal skin he used for a blanketand pulled it down upon him before curling up into a tight ball and drifting off to sleep. His last thoughts were bleary but he still knew of his goal: Athens.

And Athens was only a day's ride ahead--if they were lucky enough not to encounter Rome's armies one last time before reaching the city's gates.

That thought lulled him into a deep slumber which someone who saw him might have mistaken as one who might be a corpse. And in it's own way, it would have been a true assessment.

He was slowly dying.

Once more the great Roman armies lined up in front of the walls of Rome to protect her from the barbaric horde and once more, Greyson looked at them and laughed at the sight. Turning to his aide he said, “And now mighty Rome comes once more to beg for mercy from us.” His eyes shifted towards the cloud of dust that galloped towards them away from the gates of Rome and towards his army.

So Rome had sent an emissary to negotiate with him, he thought as he watched the small band of men fast approaching. He shifted his weight and flung back his sleeves so that his hands would be free to fight if the need arose. He carefully checked his weapons, adjusting them as needed for both comfort and accessibility, then glanced once more at the men on horseback to check on their progress. He noted that they were close; he nudged his horse forwards to meet them with his aides on either side of him.

Gandor, his most trusted aide, rode on his left. He had ridden with both Darius and Greyson for years and had proven himself to be a trustworthy and loyal man who knew how to follow any command no matter what it might be. He glanced at Greyson noting the hardness in his features and knew that the Romans were certainly not going to be granted any mercy by his lord. Crossing himself as well as making a sign against any evil that might befall them , he finally broke the silence that had gathered upon them. “Are we going to sack it?” he asked as one who knew he had the right to speak his mind around his lord and was respected for it by Greyson.

Greyson raised a hand; all three of them pulled to a stop as did the Romans who kept their distance. “Wait and see what happens, Gandor. It will be up to them.” He looked over the five men that Rome had sent out to talk with them, noting softly under his breath as he passed a glance over them one by one, ”Senator, soldier, soldier, priest.” He hawked and spat on the ground by the Senator then raised his eyes to meet the Roman’s own steady gaze. He smiled but the smile lacked any kind of warmth.

The man who Greyson had assessed correctly as being a senator spoke up after clearing his throat. “Why do you come to Rome’s gates?”

Greyson looked back at his swollen army of men before replying. “To feed ourselves, Senator. Why else?” His hand gripped the pommel of his sword; the senator’s eyes caught the movement and followed it with his eyes. Again the cold smile appeared on his face.

“You and your men are ordered to disband immediately by order of your emperor. You have broken ties with Rome; Rome however, is willing to forgive your killing of it’s citizens as well as this whole uprising if you disband.” The senator looked over the man who he was talking to, noting the unkempt hair, the dirty face as if he had ridden some distance, the powerful arms, the hawk-like face. He was disgusted to be near him and wished again that someone else had been chosen to try to negotiate with the barbarians.

Sneering, Greyson replied as he lifted his sword to throat level, “Disband? That’s not likely. I tell you what, senator whoever you are, you go tell the Emperor that the Goths do not take orders from him, nor do we accept Rome’s generosity.” He glanced to his left and right at his aides then started to laugh, making the Romans uneasy. Turning to his aides, he translated from the Latin as to what had been said to him causing his aides to join in the laughter. They exchanged glances between themselves as the Goths continued to laugh. Without warning, Greyson rode up between them and slashed outwards with his sword at the senator’s exposed neck then rode off to peer at his handiwork as the senator’s head went sailing to one side.

For what seemed to be an eternity, the body sat on the horse’s back as dual fountains of blood spurted upwards from the severed arteries and veins in the neck as the last few heartbeats extinguished themselves. The sweet yet acrid smell of blood filled the air causing the horse to become wild-eyed in fright; one of the other Roman soldiers still in shock, grabbed onto it’s reins to keep it from bolting. Slowly, it toppled to the ground and lay in a pool of crimson that slowly grew as it seeped from the body.

Greyson dismounted, walked over to the head and picked it up by the hair then stared at the now frozen expression on the senator’s face. He looked upwards at the the remaining soldiers who had done nothing nor had raised a weapon when the man they swore to protect had been killed. Shielding his eyes, he walked over to Gandor and held out his hand.

Immediately a slightly bowl shaped wooden shield with metal bosses on it was handed over to him and without looking, he unceremoniously plopped the head onto it before handing it over to the one soldier who seemed to be the one most likely in charge now. “You tell Theodonius that he has twenty-four hours to either give me a reason not to burn Rome to the ground or his head will be upon a platter like this. Do you understand?”

The old soldier nodded and jutted his chin at the others to gather up the body. Once it had been slung over his horse, they rode off to tell the Emperor what the barbarian had said and of his ultimatum.

Greyson watched them depart before driving his sword into the ground, ever watchful of the mass of well-trained Legions that faced his own army. “Tonight we stay here. Give the orders.”

The people scurried about as they left the last remaining Mass of the evening and headed back to the warmth of their homes. They walked past the small bistros and newsstands, past the small kiosk that rented skates for those who wished to use them during the day and the many other businesses that lined the streets surrounding the church. Many took no notice of the man who watched them with narrowed eyes and who flicked the cigarette butt down to the ground to join all of the rest that lay at his feet but went straight past the park without a glance at him.

The door of the church opened; a lone figure came out, dressed in the drab brown habit of a monk and took a look around at the weather before beginning to head back indoors. He paused for a moment as his eyes darted about as he tried to peer into the darkness, past the pools of light from the old lampposts and into the night but he saw nothing and went back inside. Once inside he closed the door and stood silently with his back against the it. He leaned his head against the wood as he closed his eyes while whispering one word, “Greyson.”

At the sight of the monk the man who had been watching the church, straightened while his posture stiffened. His eyes tracked every move the monk made and when the monk returned inside, he laughed bitterly. He turned away from the church and his eyes watched the glittering lights of Paris by night while his face turned cold and as brittle as his laughter.

He lit up another cigarette then he said, “Well, Father, I’ve finally come back to see you but you don’t seem to be in the mood for vistiors.” He laughed again as he elegantly flicked the still lit cigarette away from him, shoved his hands in his pockets and walked away. “I will be back, old man. You can’t hide forever,” he whispered as he left. “Once I complete my business with your other students, I’ll be back for you!”

Outside of Rome

It was indeed beautiful here in the gently rolling hills that surrounded Rome, Greyson thought to himself as his eyes tracked the movement of a hawk who screamed as it dove for its’ prey. He smiled in satisfaction as he watched the brief struggle on the ground between captor and prey knowing full well what the outcome would be and who the victor would be. He paused and turned around to look behind him at the sprawling mass of men and horses the spread out across the landscape trudging forward, always forward at his behest. It gave him an exhilarated thrill to listen to their singing the battle songs of gods, of prior victories, of camaraderie and know that finally this was his army, his command and he was coming into his own without Darius around.

Frowning at the thought of him, Greyson wondered how they were faring in Greece. The lines of communication were nearly non-existent between the two armies—each was working independently of the other but with the same goal in mind--Rome’s downfall, and Darius’ ascension to power. He looked away from his army to the golden horizon of the dawn that was breaking as he thought about it. It wasn’t that he didn’t want the power himself or the control that he would always seemingly be behind Darius. The fact was was that Greyson was a realist.

Darius was the better of the two of them; he had the diplomatic skill necessary to manipulate others by words before deeds were necessary unlike Greyson who preferred action to words. He also was far more charismatic and a born leader and men without question followed him to do whatever his bidding—Greyson counted himself among those who would willingly give his life for him—if he could die like others could.

In Greyson’s fantasies, he could see the two of them carrying on the old Roman empire and yet continuing to conquer and bring in more land, more plunder, more slaves more of everything his heart could imagine. He also imagined that Darius would reign for a thousand years or more with his help. He had always seen himself as the second man, never wanting to be the head but work behind and in support of his father.

It was true that they had their differences, but his faith and admiration of his teacher now adopted father had never wavered. Even when it got him killed on occasion, he had always awakened with a sense of awe that it had happened again and that the person who had done the killing, was also the person who he most wanted to emulate. And in a perhaps twisted small way, be loved by in whatever way he could get it. He sighed deeply, shook his head and galloped forward as he topped the last mound and looked down upon the sprawling mass of the city of Rome.

His face twisted into a wry smile as he gazed down on the buildings and homes that had represented civilization for centuries, watching as occasional people came in and out of the gates as they began their morning like other mornings unaware that the wolf was at their doorstep. ”And I am the wolf!” he shouted to the city below him in Latin, as he raised a sword above him to signal his army to halt in plain view of Roman sentries that were nestled in and around the hills.

This time, there would be no limit of a hundred men brought into Rome’s gates. This time, things were going to be quite different and the Romans would have to play by his rules and his way. There would be no other alternative. ”My way or die,” he softly said to the first of the signal fires that had finally sprang up at the sight of his army. ”There will be no alternative.”

Sparta

Methos’ finger drew a small map into the dried earth, then placed his fingertip upon the largest square. “This is the armory. I will need two of you to destroy it—burn it down.” His eyes swept over the fifteen men who encircled him then chose two. “You and you. This will be your goal. It’s guarded so be prepared for a fight.”

One of the men chosen craned his head down for a better look, then spoke up. “How do you know it’s guarded?”

Methos smiled. “I’ve been here many times in my life for many different reasons. Trust me, it’s guarded.”

Another of the men pointed to the crude map. “What is this here and here?”

“Each of those represent guard posts along the wall; the circles are the ones by the gates. Those are the most important ones to take out because that is how we can get back out alive—if we are successful.” Again he scanned his men, a few who looked skeptical about the success of his plan. “I’ve done this thousands of time, you have to trust me. We have the element of surprise on our hands—the entire city is sleeping as is Rome’s army. This will be something to tell your grandchildren about and will be recorded in the songs or whatever you do to tell of heroes.” He rubbed his chin, nodded then stood.

His men looked less skeptical than before he noted as he scooped up a handful of ashes and began slathering it all over his nude body, changing the paleness of it to darkness. His men followed suit and the job was soon finished. He added a few strokes of charcoal to his face for good measure as his mind flashed images of Kronos at him. “Never again, “he whispered to the night air. “Never like that again.”

Turning towards his men, his eyebrows raised in a questioning look he asked, “Ready?” When they all nodded, he nodded also in affirmation. “Good, let’s go!”

Smoke

Heat.

Stilicho's nostrils curled at the smell of something burning as he bolted upwards from his bed where he had been sleeping. He wiped the trickle of sweat that seeped by his eyes and he shoved himself out of bed and to the tent flap.

Pulling it back, he caught his breath as he took in the vast orange glow the sky held over the city of Sparta and saw the flames within as they licked upwards to the stars. "My God!" he said in awe at the sight, despite having seen it several times over in the time he had been a soldier.

His army was in a state of confusion he saw, as he scanned around with his eyes for any sign of Constantine. Men ran about gathering weapons as they jostled about helter skelter in the melee as they tried to prepare themselves for whatever was to happen next.

The horses had been released by someone and were stampeding in a frightened state through the camp at the smell and sight of the fire. It was eerie to watch all of this; he was drawn out into the middle of it all by the nerve of the general on the Goth side. He couldn't help but to admire such a plan's audacity and skill in carrying it out under their nose--quite successfully it looked like.

Darius. He must be quite a man and was certainly a worthy opponent, he thought to himself. And the next time they encountered him, he would not underestimate him.

Constantine galloped up to him and threw himself off the horse, panting as he caught his breath. "They're gone." He gulped the cinder-laden air and stared at his co-commander all the while thinking that this outcome would have been different had he been fully in charge. Glancing back at the burning city, he continued. "There's a steady stream of people who have escaped the inferno and are coming into camp begging for food and water as well as asking for our protection from the Goths."

Stilicho's eyes narrowed as he thought about the problems he faced. There wasn't enough for all the refugees in terms of food or water and they would certainly impede the army's chance of catching the barbarians in the morning. He shouted for his aide, hoping that he was somewhere close by. "Antoninius!"

He looked back at the other general knowing what he must be thinking since he would probably be thinking the same thing if he were in the same position. "They can stay here for the night but in the morning when the fires are out they must return to the city. We have no room for them nor supplies. Antoninius!" He walked away, hands on hips as he thought it out. "How do you know they are gone?"

Constantine stayed silent for a moment as he tried to decide whether to tell him that he had ridden close enough to where the Goths had camped to feel the other Immortal's presence but had neither seen or felt him. He had slowly paced his horse though the camp, noting the still glowing embers in the firepits, the turned up earth from where the horses had been tethered before being ridden away, the lack of any kind of tent or shelter anywhere.

Where had they gone to in the middle of the night? What direction? He had sighed then, knowing that the answers to his questions would have to wait until morning when the light of day would reveal what he wanted to know.

"I've seen it up close. They have moved everything but only the light of the new day will tell us more."

Stilicho's brow knitted together in anger. "You were there? What about the risk to you?"

"I never said I was there< General," his voice dipping saracasm as he said the title. "I said I was close and, if you recall, risk is part of being a soldier. It's a part of my job--and of yours."

Furious at the slight, Stilicho came up to him until they were eye to eye and stared at him before storming off back into his tent as Constantine looked on.

His aide came up moments later and looked at the remaining general in confusion. "What am I needed for?"

Constantine loked over the man then ordered him to dispatch back to Rome a letter telling them that Sparta had been lost to the Goths and that they were to be in pursuit of them in the morning. "Do it now and be prepared to ride out in the morning. Understand?"

The aide nodded and left; Constantine surveyed the camp's confused state and shook his head. There was much to be done, and much to prepare for.

It was going to be a long night indeed.