Rome

by Matthew Thayer

  “Now try the other half, see if you can break it.”

  Even over his knee, Kaikane was unable to snap the lower bit of the stick.

  “Obviously, this preservative quality may have applications for the sailing canoe’s hulls,” Father said. “I believe this is what the Greeks, Egyptians and Romans used to protect their galleys. Are you still having problems with the Leilani?”

  Kaikane did not take his eyes off the driftwood as he replied. “Worse than ever.”

  Father shook his head in mock disgust. “And you want us to sail across the Atlantic? Well, I have an idea. We’ve all seen tar balls washed up on the beaches. Maybe you can collect enough to coat the hulls. We could help you. Find some and test it out to see if it works.”

  I lost interest, tried to think cool, calm thoughts as they hashed over the possibilities.

  With all the gifts doled out and the midsummer sun nearing the horizon, the clan pitched in to tidy the patio before dark. We’ve learned the hard way it is best not to leave food out, or to forget to wash our utensils. Our fires and human scent go only so far in keeping opportunists away. We have been robbed by a range of nocturnal thieves, everything from owls to porcupines.

  Flower proved herself a willing helper and charming dinner companion this evening. The fact that she rotated red-hot rocks into the cook bags so assiduously our venison turned to glue was not really her fault. I should have been more attentive.

  How refreshing it is to have a woman in camp who does not consider Maria a threat or rival. Maybe it’s the gray at Duarte’s temples or the beginnings of wrinkles at the corner of her eyes, but the girl treats her with the respect of a favored elder. This evening they spent much time with their heads together, chatting and sharing duties, commenting on the men in tones too low to be heard by others. Two biddies sharing secrets.

  With her missing tooth and short stature, Flower knows her beauty does not compare to Maria’s. Even by Cro-Magnon standards, where a Rubenesque shape is considered quite comely, Flower cannot hold a candle to the doctor. Or perhaps she has taken note of Duarte’s greater height and the strength of her ropy muscles and realizes the fiery Portuguese could easily beat the merde out of her.

  Whatever the reasons for their contentment, we all are thankful. I wish I could drink a toast to their everlasting friendship. It is going to be a long night, hell, a long week.

  Buona Notte.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Duarte: “Find any?”

  Kaikane: “Two small balls, but they’ve been in the water so long I doubt they’ll do much. Even if tar does help, we’ll never collect enough.”

  Duarte: “We could make a fast run to Syria.”

  Kaikane: “Yeah, right.”

  Duarte: “Just an idea.”

  Kaikane: “You’re not kidding are you?”

  Duarte: “Nope.”

  Kaikane: “How long a trip we talking?”

  Duarte: “Roughly 1,600 miles each way.”

  Kaikane: “We’ll be going the wrong direction.”

  Duarte: “If we can extend the canoe’s life another eight to 10 years, it’ll be well worth the detour. I have plans for that boat.”

  Kaikane: “Like?”

  Duarte: “For one, after we’ve explored the eastern coast of North America, I’d like to see if you can sail us up the Mississippi River.”

  Kaikane: “That sounds pretty cool. What about Maui?”

  Duarte: “We have a lot of ground to cover and water to cross before we take on sailing to Hawaii. We’ve talked about this–bury the last computer in California and sail off into the sunset.”

  Kaikane: “Maybe Syria isn’t such a bad idea.”

  From the log of Capt. Juniper Jones

  Security Detail II

  Strange how things can hum along for years and all of a sudden the wheels fly off. No surprise it happened when Hunter got back. Guy has a way of shaking things up.

  Day started normal enough. Flower wanted to hike down to the riverbank to see if we could haul in one of the big sturgeons Gray Beard talks about in his stories. Kaikane traded her one of his ivory fishhooks for some bone needles and she was hot to try it out. Woman’s never seen a hook so big.

  Gray Beard was game, so the three of us got up early and made it down to the flats before dawn. Had to build a couple smoky fires, toot on bone flutes and clack our spears to clear a zone without tigers and hyena, but sun wasn’t up long before we reached the bank and the old man showed her how to tie the lines to driftwood floats before baiting the weighted hook with a live toad. They futzed with it for hours and never got a bite. Her, laughing and excited, happy to be doing something new, and the old man pretending to be bothered by her girlishness. Old coot was having as much fun as her. Fish just weren’t interested. Coiling up the ropes to leave, Flower pointed to a nearby row of rock piles and made the hand signs for “old ones.”

  Gray Beard confirmed it in trade dialect, “Flat Head long sleepers. Good tools. Good flint.”

  Never pegged the storyteller for a grave robber, but he went to work rolling away stones and digging with his yew spear. Flower was right there beside him, gung-ho to see what they could find. I left ‘em to it, too hot for such hard, dusty work. I fed driftwood to the fires, kept an eye on the lions, waded out into the current every once in a while to cool off.

  They tossed two graves and found flints, jewelry and ivory carvings in both. Old man was tickled to see each one had a nice chunk of unworked flint. He joked that if the Flat Heads were going to use the flint to make tools in the afterlife, they should have done it already. “Too late now,” he chuckled as he loaded the five-pounders into his gathering bag.

  The rest of the stuff he gave to Flower–a handful of ivory beads, two small carvings of mammoth, one broken-in-half Venus statue and a foot-long, barbed spear point that the old man said was probably used for poking fish and frogs. I knew Sal was gonna go nuts over the place so I didn’t bother taking him a skull. Let him carry his own shit up the hill.

  On the way back, we were about 125 yards out from the Trevi watering hole when I asked the old man what he felt like cooking.

  “I don’t feel like cooking anything,” he said, “but I feel like eating pig flesh basted with honey. Hunt a pig for us.”

  The storyteller likes to see the atlatl in action. Guy has tried a million times, but still can’t get the hang of flicking darts. He pointed through a clump of dried out reeds. “See the mama pig with the yearlings standing in the shade of the nut tree? A yearling would not be too hard to drag to the top of the hill. Hunt the biggest one, the yearling pig in the middle.”

  Animals had no idea man was on the hunt as I found a flat, clear patch screened by a line of bushes about 80 yards out. I took off my pack and loosened my shoulder before nocking the first bolt. My sightlines were good over the bushes, but the bolt sailed on me, landed in the mud about 20 yards long. Pigs never heard it over the noise of bison and birds.

  “Your man never misses twice,” Gray Beard bragged to Flower before turning and slapping me on the back. “Go on, show her what the mightiest of all Green Turtle weapons can do.”

  No pressure. I adjusted my aim, ran up and launched a lucky shot that took a young boar straight through his rib cage. He never took another step, just dropped. Gray Beard tooted on his bone flute and led the charge to claim our kill before the vultures and hyena tucked in. I didn’t bother telling them I was aiming for a different pig, not even when they bragged to the gang later. Felt good to be appreciated.

  No sign of the big wolf today. Spotted his tracks yesterday in the dunes. Crossed them while we were hiking over to Yellow Dove’s cave to find she and her clan had split. Old man thinks dry weather chased them out. Yellow Dove told him an old story about lakes and streams drying up, everybody going north. Drought’s not that bad yet. I guess she and her people decided to get an early jump.

  We hiked over to the river mouth camps and found an old man digging oysters who confirmed t
he clan and two others had swum the river and headed north on the coastal trail. He said he was too old and tired for such a long journey.

  If it bothered Gray Beard that Yellow Dove left without saying goodbye, he never said so.

  Salvatore and Hunter hadn’t inspected the pickings from the graves for more than two seconds before Sal got to bugging me to take him down to the river. Said he just had to see burial site for himself. No coincidence there was a ton of chores to do at the time, that’s Sal’s style. We had just dragged a 200-pound pig onto the patio and it needed to be butchered for cooking as well as curing.

  We stuck around long enough to help Gray Beard and Hunter get the pig skinned and hung. The old man did most of the cutting. Once he peeled off the hairy, black hide in one piece and the carcass was hung from the usual oak limb, he spread the skin to use as a trash can. He heaped all the shit he didn’t want on the skin while the rest of us policed the camp and added old bones, scraps and other crap to the mound. Standard operating procedure. As long as we’re headed to the bottom of Palatine we might as well take out the garbage.

  Kaikane and Duarte wandered in about that time, so Gray Beard had plenty of help stoking the fires and sectioning the pig–big roasts for turning on spits and a pile of thin strips to hang on the smoking rack. Sal was quick to ask for his share–intestines and bits for sausage, and all four legs that he’ll cure in his special salts and spices. No denying Sal’s got a way with prosciutto. We’re all missing that dry meat.

  For years the plan has been to stockpile supplies for the Atlantic crossing. Now that we’re close, a damn bear has set us back to square one. We have time to cure meat, collect other food that’ll keep, but it’s wrong time of year for olives and grapes. Probably have to make trip without Sal’s oil or wine, which is a fucking bummer.

  Holes and all, that’s the latest plan. We’ve got all kinds of plans around here. Got back from the river and Duarte, Hunter and Kaikane thought they had it decided. “We’re leaving in a week,” they said. “Fuck that,” was my answer, and Sal’s too. What happened to having a fucking meeting where we talk strategy together?

  Hunter rolled into town with some bullshit story about tar pits in Syria and now we’re just supposed to pack up our shit and go? In the wrong direction? I’m not ready. And neither is Sal. He was talking archeological dig all the way back from the river.

  He and I dug in our heels. Pissed Duarte off big time. Before long, she and Sal were shouting in English at each other, cussing each other up one side and down the other. Right in front of Flower and Gray Beard. They may not have understood the words, but there was no missing the meaning. All in all, it was pretty fucking entertaining.

  “Syria is east, I agreed to go west!”

  “We need your help! The boat needs your help.”

  “I do not trust that canoe. What if it crumbles in the middle of the Atlantic?”

  “That’s why we need to go to Syria.”

  “I am not going. Not until I have conducted this dig. This is my last chance to study Neanderthal before you sentence me to a life term in empty North America.”

  “North America is not empty!”

  “Maybe not of plants. That is all you care about! There will be plenty of plants, but no people. That is what I care about! I must see this dig through. It is my last chance to make my mark.”

  “There may be plenty of humans in North America by now.”

  “That theory has never been proven.”

  It took a couple hours to reach a compromise. Sal and I will stay in Rome while Duarte, Hunter, Kaikane and Gray Beard sail the canoe for a quick dry dock in Syria. They’ll tar the boat and confirm it’s seaworthy. We’re tasked with gathering and preserving stores for the crossing and finding and preparing a cave to bury our Europe junk in. Duarte wants to leave a computer, wrap shit up. Guess I’m not the only one who figures we better cover our ass in case we only make it halfway across the Atlantic.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Hunter: “On my way here, I stopped in the region that will one day encompass Siena.”

  Duarte: “That’s pretty country. Tuscany.”

  Hunter: “Dry as a mouse fart, and plagued by a group of tattooed fellows preaching nonsense.”

  Duarte: “Martinelli’s Tattoos?”

  Hunter: “May well have been.”

  Duarte: “Circles on their cheeks?”

  Jones: “Human sacrifice?”

  Bolzano: “Vicious human scum?”

  Hunter: “Yes, yes and yes.”

  Duarte: “This is bad. We’ll have to do something.”

  Hunter: “Already taken care of.”

  Duarte: “Taken care of?”

  Hunter: “Yes. I sent them to meet their maker. Perhaps, right now, they are sitting by Martinelli’s knee in heaven.”

  Kaikane: “I wouldn’t bet on it.”

  Hunter: “Specialist Kaikane, funny you should mention betting in a conversation about Siena.”

  Kaikane: “Oh boy, here we go.”

  Hunter: “Did you folks know our Recreation Specialist once raced in the great Palio?”

  Duarte: “The horse race around the town square?”

  Hunter: “Yes, it is held twice each summer in Siena’s Piazza del Campo.”

  Bolzano: “I think not. I am certain the race was open only to residents of one of the 17 contrade, the city wards.”

  Hunter: “A video production company bought his entry. For a reality show.”

  Duarte: “You’re awful quiet, Hon. Is it true?”

  Kaikane: “Yeah. I did it.”

  Hunter: “Did it? You almost won! It’s why we put you on The Team.”

  Kaikane: “I thought it was because I was good at checkers.”

  From the log of Paul Kaikane

  Recreation Specialist

  Hunter roped me into telling the gang about the Palio. Been years since I thought of that crazy race. When we first got to Italy, I considered trying to find the hills of Siena, but decided not to. What would be the point? Nothing looks anything like it used to. There’s no going back, no connecting with old friends or playing backgammon in outdoor cafes. And let’s face it, there’s parts of the story Maria wouldn’t like hearing.

  I quit boring everybody with my recollections of surf contests, mountain climbing and all the other junk I used to do. If I tell it like it really was it sounds like I’m bragging or making it up. Tone it down and they lose interest, start thinking about their own stories. I fed them bits and pieces about the Palio, answered their questions. “Yes, it was exciting. Yes, I did have Italian jockeys hack me with their leather whips and try to push me off my horse. Yes, I did the same to them.”

  After a while, the conversation turned back to a few Tattoo assholes Hunter says he killed with pulsar blasts up in Siena. Maria and Sal had a lot of questions. Jones listened for a while before taking off to see what Flower and Gray Beard were up to. Tuning the chatter out, ignoring the drops of sweat rolling down my face in the dark, I leaned against a tree and returned to the Palio.

  This happened early in my time working with extreme filmmaker Stephen Jacoby. We’d made a few surf adventure flicks and were coming off a tandem air surfing stunt over Everest. Stephen was always cooking up the next big thing. He pitched me the Palio idea on the flight back from Nepal.

  “There’s this bareback horse race in Italy,” he dropped the bait. “It only takes about a minute and a half to run, just three times around a little city square, but it generates billions of Norte Americanos in betting worldwide. I see potential for a massive audience.”

  “I’ve never ridden a horse.”

  “That makes it perfect!”

  “Perfect?”

  “Yeah! You’ll have five weeks to learn how. We’ll make it a weekly show, with daily updates, live stream.”

  “I’ve never even sat on a horse.”

  “Don’t worry. Even if you get knocked off, the horse can still win the race. I’ve paid the right people, y
ou’ll get a good ride.”

  “Five weeks?”

  “That’s all we’ve got. You race on July 2nd. That’s why we’re headed to Rome.”

  “How long have you known about this?”

  “Doesn’t matter. Trust me, we’ll get great images.”

  Those were two of his favorite sayings, “Trust me” and “Doesn’t matter.” All Stephen cared about was getting the shot. No big deal if people were hurt or killed as long as he got what he was after. At this point I still thought he was an awesome guy. He was putting money in my pocket, taking me to sick challenges around the world, handling all the details and introducing me to a lot of influential people. Not my standard gig, really, but for a while it was pretty heady.

  I think he had something like seven fixed cameras for the Palio and a shitload of drones, which he had to get special permits to use. Steve could plan the heck out of shoots, stage them so they came off just perfect, but a lot of us thought his best stuff came when he stripped away the crew and cameras and relied on just one or two silent drones to capture behind-the-scenes footage. Most of the time I didn’t even know I was on camera. That’s how naive I was.

  He got me an apartment in a southern part of Siena, the Tartuca contrade, and rented an old solar motorbike for me to ride back and forth to the farm where the horses and trainers lived. I didn’t speak a word of Italian, which was probably good, because the neighbors weren’t all that happy that some stranger who had never ridden was going to represent them in the big race.