Marcus woke up in mud.
He opened his eyes and saw trees. Huge trees, bigger than any he had ever seen. The air was thick and hot and wet. Insects buzzed around his head. Something screamed in the distance—an animal he didn't recognize.
He pushed himself to his feet and looked around. He was in a forest, but not like the forests of Rome or the lands he knew. This was different. Wild. Untamed.
Where was he?
Marcus checked himself. He was wearing different clothes now. Leather and rough cloth. A knife hung at his belt. The curse always gave him the basics to survive in whatever time it threw him into.
He started walking. There had to be people somewhere. There were always people. And where there were people, there would be fighting. There would be killing.
That was his curse. To be a weapon for all of time.
He walked for hours through the thick forest. The sun was hot overhead, beating down through the canopy of leaves. Sweat ran down his back. His feet hurt. But he kept going.
As the sun was setting, he heard voices.
Marcus moved quietly through the trees, getting closer. He saw a clearing ahead. In the clearing was a village. But not like the villages he knew from Rome. These buildings were made of wood and thatch. The people were dressed in simple cloth and animal skins.
And their skin was different. Darker. Red-brown, like clay.
Marcus had never seen people who looked like this before. But it didn't matter. People were people. They all bled the same.
He watched the village from the trees. There were maybe fifty people. Men, women, children. They were cooking food over fires. Talking in a language Marcus didn't understand.
The curse would fix that. It always did. In a few days, he would understand their words. He would learn their ways. And then he would do what the curse demanded.
He would kill.
But not yet. First, he needed to learn. To watch. To understand.
Marcus found a hiding spot in the trees and settled in to wait. He was good at waiting. When you had lived for centuries, you learned patience.
He watched the village through the night. He saw the people eat and laugh and tend to their fires. He saw them put their children to bed. He saw the guards walking the perimeter, spears in hand.
As the moon rose high, Marcus noticed something. A group of men at the edge of the village, talking in low voices. They kept looking toward the forest. Toward him.
Had they seen him?
No. They were looking past where he hid. At something else.
Then Marcus smelled it. Smoke. Not from the cooking fires. This was different. Sharper. And it was coming closer.
Through the trees, Marcus saw lights. Torches. Dozens of them. And voices, shouting in yet another language he didn't know.
Raiders.
The peaceful village was about to be attacked.
Marcus smiled in the darkness. The curse had brought him to the right place at the right time. It always did.
The raiders burst from the trees screaming war cries. There were at least thirty of them, maybe more. They wore strange armor made of wood and leather. They carried clubs and axes and spears.
The village guards tried to fight back, but they were outnumbered. Marcus watched as a raider swung a club studded with stones into a guard's head. The skull caved in with a wet crunch. Blood and brain matter splattered across the ground.
Another guard got a spear through the chest. The wooden point punched through his back, lifting him off his feet. He hung there on the spear for a moment, blood pouring from his mouth, before the raider yanked the weapon free and let him fall.
The villagers were screaming now. Running. The raiders chased them down, killing some, grabbing others. They wanted prisoners. Slaves, probably.
Marcus stood up. He pulled the knife from his belt. It wasn't much, but it would do.
He walked out of the trees and into the chaos of the raid.
A raider saw him and charged, raising his club. Marcus waited until the last second, then stepped aside. The club whistled past his head. Marcus grabbed the raider's arm and pulled him off balance. Then he drove his knife up under the man's jaw.
The blade punched through the soft tissue beneath the chin, through the tongue, into the brain. The raider's eyes rolled back. Marcus pulled the knife free and shoved the body away.
Blood poured from the wound in the raider's neck. He was dead before he hit the ground.
Two more raiders came at Marcus together. He ducked under the first one's swing and slashed across the man's belly. The knife cut deep, opening a long gash. Intestines bulged out through the wound. The raider screamed and fell, trying to hold himself together.
The second raider stabbed at Marcus with a spear. Marcus caught the shaft and pulled. The raider stumbled forward. Marcus punched him in the throat, crushing his windpipe. The man fell to his knees, gasping for air that wouldn't come. His face turned purple, then blue. He clawed at his throat, eyes bulging. Then he fell over, suffocated.
Marcus picked up the spear and turned to face more attackers.