Chapter One: Fighting for Survival



Brutus was enjoying himself immensely.

This day had been a long time in coming, and now that it had finally arrived, he intended to grab it lustily with both hands and suck all the juice and marrow from it that he could. By the ancient laws of their nomadic tribe, he had seized the position of Chief, and the power that came with it. His word was law; his wishes, commands.

Oh, there were supposed to be limits on his power—tacitly understood rules his predecessors had obeyed and no doubt created. He would have none of that. He was the greatest Chief his people had ever known; he knew it even if they did not yet. A few petty rules were not going to limit his actions, nor his appetites.



“More fish!” Brutus shouted, and more than one of the tribe’s women jumped to her feet and went to the fire pit to obtain more of the roasted river trout for him. He liked that, how they jumped in response to his demands.

One young woman did not jump when he bellowed, however. This did not surprise him. He watched her surreptitiously, out of the corner of his eye.
She was tall and slender, her raven-black hair pulled back and tied so it hung down her back. Her arms were crossed beneath her breasts, and she was clearly watching him with undisguised contempt. She sat at the edge of the circle, the central fire’s flames flickering and highlighting her features: high cheekbones, dark eyes, and sensuous lips. Her long deer skin tunic was decorated with the colourful stones the tribe had learned to mine from the hills they encountered on their travels.

Ravenna. Julius’ stepdaughter. One of the most beautiful women in this tribe or any other, Brutus thought. And taking her, as was his right, would be the final step in claiming the position that, since he was a boy, he had known would one day be his.

Brutus finished his fish and spat out a few bones. He wiped the juice from his lips and chin with his forearm, then stood up. He stretched. Many eyes around the fire watched him, several in adoration. He was magnificent, he knew. He was tall and muscular, and if his body sported a few scars from his encounters with lions or bears, they did not detract from his looks. In fact, he liked to think the battle scars enhanced his appeal. Men admired him and women desired him. Not without exception, of course; but he intended to deal with one of those exceptions immediately.

“I’ve had my fill,” he declared. “Of food. Now I need a woman.”

There as some uncertain, uncomfortable stirring amongst the tribe at this. The new chief’s intention, and desire, was clear. But things didn’t work that way…

“May I ask,” a female voice said, “what exactly you mean, oh Chief?”

Brutus turned towards the source of the voice: Sevilla, the tribe’s druid. The old woman had stood up from her seat near the cooking fire. She held her thin, small body upright with great dignity. It was quite a visual contrast: the young, powerful frame of the new chief, and the tiny one of the aged holy woman. Yet it was unclear, at this point, which of them was more powerful.

Brutus glowered at the old woman, though her interruption was not entirely unexpected. “I should think that is obvious. I have an itch, and I want it scratched.”

Some of the young men sitting behind him, his followers, guffawed. Brutus turned and smiled at them.

“You wish to take a mate?” Sevilla said, ignoring the crudity of his remark. “Very well. The rituals will be performed, and a woman will be…”

“NO,” Brutus interrupted her. The silence was heavy around the fire now. No one dared interrupt a druid, let alone contradict one. Their wrath, once earned, was implacable, the consequences dire.

Brutus, however, considered their rituals, divinings, and curses to be mere superstition, and had long ago decided that one of his first actions as chief would be to reduce the druids’ influence over his people.

“There will be no ritual that takes days to perform, no interference in my selection, and no vows of devotion,” he said. “I do not want a mate, old woman. I want my bed warmed. By her.”

He pointed to Ravenna.



The young woman sprang to her feet, her face changing from an expression of contempt to one of fury. “I will do no such thing!” she said angrily. “You are no Chief, you are a barbarian!”

“I have claimed the position of Chief by the ancient laws of our tribe!” Brutus retorted in an angry bellow. His big, powerful frame stalked towards her. “My word is law! You will do as I say, woman!”

“Murderer!” she cried, and spat in his face.

Brutus paused to wipe the spittle from his cheek. The tribe was utterly silent now. He paused a moment to allow a bemused grunt to escape his lips. Then he lashed out and backhanded Ravenna across the face, sending the slender young woman spinning backwards until she fell to the ground. Before she could push herself up, he reached down and grabbed firm hold of her hair and raised her to her feet.

“Your stepfather is dead,” he hissed at her. “You have no protector now. You are mine.”

“You are wrong on all three counts, Brutus,” a calm, dignified voice proclaimed.

All eyes turned towards the speaker. As one, the tribe gasped. Some of them screamed. Even Brutus’ eyes went wide, and he released his grip on Ravenna. She stumbled away from him, just as astonished as the rest of her tribe at the sight before them.

He was tall, and, by the tribe’s standards, old, though barely past his forty-fifth year. His body was slender—sinewy, deceptively hiding his strength. His face was somewhat gaunt, his blue eyes alight with shrewd intelligence. His hair—what was left of it, for he was balding—was short and silver-grey. He had always seemed, to the tribe he had led for so many years, to resemble an eagle—utterly calm and dignified until stirred to action, then swift and decisive. Or so it had been until earlier that day, when Brutus had challenged him for the position of Chief in ritual combat, then killed him.

The old Chief was dead. So they all had seen, and so they had all thought. But here he stood before them, looking, if anything, more hale and hearty than he had for many years.

“Julius?” Brutus was the first to recover his voice, even if it was only a hoarse, disbelieving whisper. “But…but I…”

“Killed me, and assumed the position of Chief in my stead,” Julius. “But as you can see, your claim is nullified. I am alive.”

“That’s not possible!!” Brutus sputtered.

“Do you not believe your own eyes?” Julius said, spreading his arms wide. “I stand before you, alive and well.” He took a step forward and smiled gently at his stepdaughter. Her dark eyes, he could see, were welling up with tears. Then his eyes narrowed, became icy. He focused his gaze on his rival. “It takes a great deal more than a pretender like you to kill me, boy. Now be a good lad and fetch me some of that fish, if you haven’t been a glutton and eaten it all. I’m famished.”

Brutus’ lips peeled back from his teeth in an angry grimace. “If I have to do it a hundred times, I will kill you, old man!!” With that, he roared angrily and rushed at Julius.



The older man calmly took a step back while his right hand reached towards the belt that fastened his tunic of animal skin about his waist. When Brutus reached him, he pivoted backwards to his left and brought his right hand forward, slamming it into his opponent’s chest.

Brutus stopped his headlong rush. His eyes went wide in confusion, then surprise. He stepped back from Julius and stared at his broad, muscular chest. The handle of a knife, carved from obsidian, protruded from the skin over the left side of his upper chest. Blood was spilling from the knife’s wound, which had punctured his heart.

He stared at Julius in stunned amazement. Earlier that day, the old man had moved so hesitantly, his body slowed by the ravages of age and the damage of many battles against men and beast alike. But he had moved so swiftly just now, like the Julius of old…

It was the last thing Brutus ever thought. He tried to say something, but only blood spilled from his lips. His eyes found Julius’, and he stared into those cold, icy blue eyes until his own clouded over, then rolled upwards. His knees gave out, and the big man fell to the ground, quite dead. The coterie of young men who had admired and followed him stared at his corpse in shock, then glanced at one another, uncertain as to what they should do, if anything.

“Well, that’s done,” Julius declared calmly. “If anyone else would care to oblige, I’m still quite hungry.”

“Father!!” Ravenna cried, and ran forward, wrapping a bemused Julius in her arms as she wept uncontrollably. The rest of the tribe could only stare in shock and disbelief.

It was Sevilla who found her voice first, which was no surprise to Julius. “Julius, I…” The old woman paused to cough the catch out of her voice, and to blink away tears. “How is this possible? We saw you die!”

“I did,” Julius responded simply. He gently pushed himself out of Ravenna’s embrace, though he kept one arm around her shoulders for affection and comfort.

He turned to his people and addressed them as he often had at tribal councils. He could see the fear in their eyes, the uncertainty that threatened to turn to rejection and anger in a heartbeat. His many years of experience as their Chief, and his own instincts, told him that now was a critical moment, perhaps the most critical of his life. He now knew that life, if the vision was correct, would span many years—centuries, even—still to come. He took a deep breath and spoke, and if he was awed by how much depended upon his next few words, he did not show it.

“My friends,” he began, “I see the fear in your eyes. Fear of me. And I understand. For how can a man, slain in ritual combat before your very eyes, now stand before you? How can this body, so mortally wounded earlier today, now appear so healthy and whole?”

At that, the removed his arm from Ravenna’s shoulders and pulled open his tunic, exposing his chest. The tribe gasped yet again; the mortal wound Brutus had inflicted upon him earlier that day had healed completely.

“I do not pretend to understand it myself,” Julius confessed. “But here I stand before you, returned from the dead. There can be only one reason why.” He paused for effect.

“What, Julius?” Sevilla begged him, her head of long, silver tresses still shaking in disbelief. “What reason?”

“As I lay there, neither dead nor alive, I visited the spirit realm,” he said, his voice sonorous now, its tone imparting the weight of his words. “I have experienced a vision. I have seen the future. I know now the destiny of our tribe; I have seen what we must do, what we must achieve. And I have been sent back, returned to life, in order to guide us to that destiny.”

The crowd was silent for a moment, taking in his words, clearly awestruck. Could it be? Their tribe had a great destiny to fulfill, and thus their greatest Chief had been returned from the dead to lead them to it? It still seemed impossible, but it made a strange, astonishing sense. They were all now wondering the same thing.

“What is this destiny you speak of, father?” Ravenna asked from where she stood beside him.

Julius smiled at her gently. He then glanced at the crowd. The fear was still there in their eyes. It probably always would be, for he was not like them, not anymore. He was immortal, and would outlive them all, even his beloved stepdaughter. Yes, men would fear him for that, but he could use it. Not all fear was evil.

But now, thanks to his words, he saw something else besides fear. In the faces of his people, of those he had come to know so well, he saw it, and he knew he had them.

He saw hope.

He took a breath and spoke to them. They appeared uncertain at first, still shaken by his alarming return from the land of the dead. But by the end, they were convinced—no, inspired.

Even the young men who had thrown in with Brutus were staring at Julius reverently, the body of their erstwhile leader all but forgotten where it lay on the cold ground. Julius glanced at them appraisingly. All they had needed was a purpose, these young men, something greater than the daily struggle for food, and now they had it. A pity he hadn’t seen it before. The conflict with Brutus might have been avoided. But then, would his immortality and his destiny have been made manifest?

No. Everything had happened for a reason. Brutus would be buried with the proper rituals and respect. His former followers, and those that followed them, would prove useful—vital, in fact. Their numbers would swell and grow, until they were legion. Hmm, Julius thought, Legions…

“We start tomorrow,” he said. “We will go from this place and find another, a better place that will become our home. We will wander no more. In this place we shall settle. There we shall start to build, and grow, and prosper. There, we shall begin to build…our civilization.”