Transgression

by R. S. Ingermanson

  The only way the Romans could defeat him would be to use archers. And the Roman infantry didn’t use archers. Damien had checked. When they needed bowmen, they used auxiliaries raised from conquered peoples.

  It took just about two seconds for all this to pass through his head. He had been planning it for so long that the fallback procedures were automatic. If this attack failed, he had yet another backup plan. But he wouldn’t fail.

  Damien raised his head for a moment and pointed his gun in the general direction of Ari. It was a warning, intended to freeze him in his place. I know where you are and I can shoot you if you move, so don’t try.

  A wave of the gun in Rivka’s direction accomplished the same objective with her.

  Now, back to the Romans. He would wait until they got to about a hundred and twenty yards. It was a long way, but they presented a huge target. If he missed the first row, he would hit someone in the second, or the third. At that distance, a .45 bullet still had a lot of raw stopping power, body armor or not. A hollow-point bullet exploding through somebody’s face would get that person’s attention.

  He waited.

  Waited.

  Now.

  Damien raised his gun and fired.

  * * *

  Quintus

  Quintus had not yet resigned himself to this long night march. Why the sudden orders? Who was this man they were assigned to protect? Why had so many men been rousted from their games of dice or their cups of cheap wine?

  They would march upward of thirty Roman miles tonight, and as many again tomorrow night before reaching Caesarea. Then, if the goddess Fortuna did not smile on them, they might be ordered back to this dark city of white stones and black hearts.

  Quintus had not always hated Jews. Back in Rome, he had known them as a strange people who kept to themselves in their own districts and followed their primitive customs. But the Jews of Rome were as nothing compared to these savage folk in Judea.

  The Jews of Rome kept to themselves, but at least they treated other peoples as humans. The Jews of Judea did not. They threw the evil eye at Romans, provoked them with insults, and attacked them with stones at every opportunity.

  The Jews were an evil race, and Quintus hated them.

  And now this strange march for no reason at night, taking one Jew in custody to Caesarea to protect him from other Jews.

  Apparently, Jews were as vile to their own as to strangers.

  The road bent to the right as it passed by a sheer cliff. Quintus marched on the right corner of the lead row. The country here looked wild, strange, eerie in the moonlight—as savage as the people who lived here. A hot, humid wind had been blowing all day, keeping tempers ugly. It would only get worse as they marched down into the lowlands near the coast. Tomorrow would be intolerable. There would be little sleep—

  In the distance ahead, something scurried across the road. A wild animal? A man? Quintus estimated the distance at a hundred Roman paces. He squinted into the darkness.

  Nothing. Perhaps some wild dog, but nothing more. The men of Rome continued forward at the same pace.

  Beside Quintus, his gambling buddy Sextus spoke up cheerfully. “Quintus, when we reach Caesarea, we’ll go to the games, get drunk, and find a woman.”

  Quintus spat in the road and half-turned to look at his friend. “I would not choose that order. And I suggest we find two women.”

  A bright flash shattered the darkness, then a boom split the night quiet. Half a heartbeat later, Sextus jolted backward, then collapsed in the road.

  Quintus stared down at his friend. Half of his face was gone, the other half badly bloodied. Quintus had never witnessed anything like it. Sextus lay without moving in the dust.

  The man behind Sextus stumbled over him. Quintus choked back bile. What new savagery was afoot?

  Sudden shouts rippled backward through the force. “Keep moving, fools!”

  Another noise boomed across the desert landscape. Marcus, the middle man in the row, screamed and tumbled to the ground, clutching his belly. His abdominal armor hung in shards.

  Now the first few rows had stopped, staring at the two men on the ground.

  Quintus spit bile onto the road. Something evil had been loosed in this dark land. It was like the old tales of gods who threw lightning and roared thunder at mortals. Cold fear slid a dagger down his spine.

  The centurion appeared at a run. “What’s going on?” he shouted. “Why has the march stopped?” His eyes fell on the two soldiers. “What—”

  Another boom echoed. The centurion pitched backward as though a mule had kicked him in the chest. A gaping hole appeared in his body armor below the heart.

  He collapsed on the ground and lay there screaming.

  * * *

  Ari

  Ari’s mouth hung open. His eyes were riveted on the scene playing out before him. Damien has a chance to win this battle. A good chance. And I can’t do a thing about it.

  Ari knew he could make a mad dash down this slope at Damien, but he would probably kill himself in the process. If he made it to the bottom, then he would have twenty meters of open ground to cover. But Damien was obviously a skilled gunman. Ari would not have a chance.

  Alternatively, Ari could find some more stones and throw them at Damien. But he would have to stand up to do so. With the moon behind him, he would be a perfect target for Damien.

  Ari knew he could escape, no matter what happened. If he crawled back a few meters, he could stand up and slink away from this battlefield.

  But Rivka could not do that. She was stuck down there somewhere. She could not leave without making herself a target. Ari could not go to her without becoming a target himself. If Damien completed his mission, what would he do next? Leave in triumph? Or take revenge on Rivka?

  A bead of sweat rolled down into Ari’s eye. If the Romans won, then all would be well. If they lost, then Rivka would die. Ari knew he would not abandon her. If Damien came after her, he would have to fight Ari first.

  Until then, there was no point in doing anything.

  Damien poked his head out from his hiding place and fired up toward Ari. The fact that Ari heard the shot told him that Damien had missed.

  It was a warning shot, then. A reminder that Damien had superior force, and that Ari had better keep out of this.

  Ari was already lying in the dirt, exposing just enough of his head so he could see the battle. He eased himself back a few centimeters to lower his profile even further.

  At that moment, the Romans made their move.

  * * *

  Quintus

  Fear tore through the ranks. Quintus could feel it like a cold wind. The three men in the dirt bore horrible wounds. The two still alive would not survive long. Who could do such things, except the gods?

  A second centurion strode forward. “Men of Rome, our road lies ahead, not behind. We will attack. Unloose your javelins.”

  Quintus fumbled with the two javelins he carried in his pack, their twin points like fingers jabbing at the heavens. His nerveless hands would not work.

  Another blast echoed in the hills. Another soldier’s face exploded.

  Master your fear, Quintus.

  Suddenly, hot anger surged through his veins. This enemy was destroying the great army of Rome, one by one, affronting the gods of his land. And the gods of Rome ruled the earth. No enemy could stand against them. Quintus yanked his javelins up and out of his pack.

  “Raise the standards!” he shouted. The standards would protect them. The standards were the gods of the legion. Normally, standard-bearers carried them on long poles wherever the legion went, striking fear into the enemies of Rome. Here, in the vicinity of this city of the Jews, the standards had been lowered and covered, so as not to excite the anger of the Jews.

  But now the standards must protect the army of Rome.

  “Raise the standards!” the centurion ordered. Other soldiers took up the cry.

  Quickly, the standard-bearer brought out the sta
ndards and uncovered them. He raised the pole and waved it aloft.

  “I need fifty men,” said the centurion. “The first ten rows. You will advance toward the enemy. Thirty paces from that boulder, you will launch javelins. At twenty paces, you will launch a second round. You will then draw swords and attack. Quintus, you will give the signal to launch.”

  Another burst of flame punctured the night. The man next to the standard-bearer screamed and fell to the ground, his arm shattered at the shoulder.

  Quintus looked briefly at the wound. This wound might be mortal, or it might not. But if this enemy was a god, then he was not all-powerful. He could not kill every time.

  “Go now!” said the centurion. “And may Fortuna smile on you.”

  Quintus found himself running, a javelin hefted in each hand, his eyes on the point from which the flashes of light had come.

  The enemies of Rome had chosen the wrong night to attack her legions.

  * * *

  Damien

  Damien reloaded quickly, stealing rapid glances at the turmoil on the road. Now they were unwrapping a long pole. He had no idea what it was—a totem pole? Crazy. Whatever it was, obviously they were counting on it as a talisman.

  Damien fired at the man holding the pole. He missed, but the next man over fell in the dirt, screaming. Winged, by the look of him. That ought to send a fresh round of panic through the troops. A message from the god Damien. Your magic is no use against my magic.

  That ought to get them panicked.

  Instead, it appeared to have the opposite effect. Suddenly, a large group of soldiers made a dash toward Damien.

  He smiled coolly and fired. Bang! Down went one of the leaders. Bang! Down went another. Still, they kept coming. The man with the pole ran in front, shrieking like a banshee.

  Damien fired twice. Sweat gushed out of his armpits. He downed two more soldiers, but still they came on. Sixty yards away.

  Damien aimed carefully and fired his last round.

  The soldier with the totem pole staggered and fell. The pole fell with him. The attack stuttered to a halt.

  Damien reloaded frantically.

  Fools! Ten seconds more, and you could have overwhelmed me.

  Instead, the men huddled around their fallen comrade, gibbering as if the great god Zeus had come crashing down to earth.

  Damien shot another warning look up at Ari, and then at Rivka. He couldn’t see either of them from here, but they could see him. That was what mattered.

  Now for the finishing touch. He had stopped the advance. Time to put them on the run.

  Damien raised his gun and began firing again.

  * * *

  Quintus

  Quintus felt frantic with fear. The god of the legion was downed! What evil lurked behind that rock?

  Another flash. Another boom. Death slammed another soldier in the face.

  “Down!” shouted a voice in Latin. A woman’s voice. “Get down!”

  The goddess Fortuna?

  A second flash. Another soldier fell.

  On impulse, Quintus dropped to the earth.

  Several of the soldiers did likewise.

  The woman’s voice shouted again. “After six flashes, the evil one must rest!”

  The bright light flashed again. Another soldier fell in a shower of blood.

  “Fall to the earth, fools!” Quintus hissed.

  More of them did so.

  The light flashed again, but this time not at the soldiers. Now it stabbed across the road in the direction of the woman’s voice. A great boom echoed off the nearby hills.

  Quintus thought feverishly. The goddess had spoken true. The flashes came in groups of six, and then there followed a pause. Like the Jewish god, who slept each seventh day, so it was said.

  Another flash.

  Another soldier fell, screaming.

  “Prepare to attack!” Quintus said. “The evil god must rest after the next one.”

  The god spat forth his lightning again.

  “Now!” screamed the goddess. “Now attack the evil one!”

  Quintus leaped to his feet, hefting his javelins. “Follow me!” he bellowed.

  Behind him, he heard the roars of his enraged comrades. “Attack the evil one!”

  Quintus sprinted forward, raising his right arm. “Launch javelins, men of Rome!”

  An instant after he released his own weapon, a dozen more sailed over his head in a shower that converged on the lair of the evil god.

  * * *

  Damien

  Damien couldn’t follow what Rivka shouted because he didn’t know Latin. A quick warning shot shut her up. He didn’t need to hit her, if he could keep her silenced. He fired twice more at the Romans, bringing down two more men. They had stopped. But why didn’t they retreat?

  He began reloading rapidly. Midway through, he looked up.

  He swore.

  A small cluster of Romans had crossed half the distance. The gun slipped from Damien’s hands and fell in the dirt. The lead soldier shouted something, and then a volley of spears came hurtling toward him on a high trajectory designed to clear his boulder.

  Damien backpedaled furiously to get out of range, then spun and ran. He heard the weapons raining down behind him. One had been badly overthrown, and hurtled into the earth alongside him, an arm’s length away.

  They had missed!

  Now all he had to do was outrun them. He had the better shoes, and they all wore heavy armor and would probably be winded after sprinting a hundred-plus yards.

  Damien heard a shout behind him. He risked a look over his shoulder. No!

  Chapter 40

  Ari

  ARI PEERED OVER THE EDGE of the cliff. Incredible! They had put Damien on the run! He watched as the soldiers launched their second volley of javelins.

  At that moment, Damien looked back over his shoulder. Instantly, he dived to his left.

  The weapons swarmed down around him. One javelin pierced his torso just as he hit the ground.

  A terrible scream ripped the night air. Damien writhed on the ground, the javelin flopping about frantically.

  The lead soldier drew his sword as he ran toward Damien.

  Ari held his breath and instinctively closed his eyes. The horrible screams cut through his soul. He had thought he hated Damien, had wanted to give him a long, slow death. Now he realized he could not have done so.

  Suddenly, Damien’s cries stopped.

  Ari’s eyes flew open.

  The soldier yanked his sword out of Damien’s chest, then wiped it on the dead man’s clothes.

  Ari turned his head and retched.

  When he looked again, several dozen men had gathered around Damien’s body. Two of them pointed at something on this side of the road.

  Rivka!

  They had heard her shouts while Damien had been fighting them. Now they would come looking for her.

  But the men waited quietly, talking in excited voices in a language Ari did not know. He wondered why they did not come to investigate Rivka. Then he saw that no officers stood among the men. Probably, they thought themselves in no danger and awaited orders.

  Soon enough, the main body of troops arrived.

  Their discipline impressed Ari. Hundreds of men stood in neatly ordered ranks. A centurion strode forward to confer with the men.

  In the middle of the force, a small man in Jewish garb sat on a horse, his shrouded head bowed. Was he praying?

  The centurion pointed in Rivka’s direction. Two of the soldiers drew swords and crossed the road toward her.

  The small man on the horse shouted something. Latin? Greek? Ari could not tell.

  The soldiers stopped. The small man dismounted and walked slowly toward the centurion. After a brief discussion, the officer beckoned his soldiers back.

  Ari suddenly realized that he had not been breathing. Blessed be HaShem. Paul had saved Rivka from…something.

  Paul stepped toward Damien’s body. The soldiers moved out o
f his way.

  Paul knelt beside Damien’s dead body and closed his eyes. Then he stood and began to pray. It was impossible to make out the words at this distance, but Ari did not care. In a few minutes, Paul would finish, the soldiers would all pass on, and he and Rivka would be free to get on with their lives.

  Just then, one of the soldiers pointed toward Rivka and began jabbering excitedly to his commander.

  Ari’s heart slipped into a full gallop.

  Rivka appeared. Coming out of hiding! Voluntarily!

  Rivka, you crazy woman, do not go down there! Ari wanted to shriek. Instead, he watched in horrified silence.

  * * *

  Rivka

  Rivka simply couldn’t help herself. Something terrible might happen if she went. But what if she didn’t? She would never be this close to Paul again. She had to join him, to pray with him.

  As she climbed down, she heard the soldiers chattering in Latin. Ordinarily, she would have been terrified of walking among this many men alone at night. But Paul would protect her, she felt sure.

  When she reached the bottom of the slope, she marched toward Paul, ignoring the soldiers. They separated before her, eyes downcast as if she were a queen or a goddess.

  She reached Paul’s side. Suddenly, she found herself crying. Dr. West had tried to kill her, but she could not hate him. He was a man, a living soul, a son of Adam.

  Paul continued praying, oblivious to her. Not the Kaddish, but something else. Either his own extemporaneous prayer, or one which had not survived to modern times. Rivka remembered that the Kaddish would not be used by mourners for another thousand years or so, though some early form of it probably existed in this century. Paul had never heard that great and beautiful prayer, at least not in the form Rivka knew it.