Rome

by Matthew Thayer

  Abandoning the chaos and carnage of the riverbank, the swirling flies and stench of rotting carcasses, the four of us meandered southwest through a wasted land of scorched swamps, leafless forests and meadows grazed down to the roots. Dearth of food and water had driven most animals away, leaving behind an eerie calm. One becomes so accustomed to the incessant hammering of birds, insects and mammals, now we’re more attuned to when the chirps and cries of murder cease.

  It was the first time Jones or I had ever visited the seashore without encountering at least one other human. Back in the glory days, there might be four or five clans in residence along each side of the Tiber’s mouth. I performed Green Turtle stories to crowds of 50 and more. One late autumn harvest dance had 150 Cro-Magnons and me dancing around the central fire.

  The new boys say every stream in the land has dried up. Northern lakes are so thickly surrounded by game man cannot reach water. To hear them tell it, every tribe in Italy but ours has evacuated to the valleys and glaciers of the Alps. (As Chief Anthropologist, I believe the mass migration would be something to see.)

  By happenstance we gained the coast not far from where Dr. Duarte and Spc. Kaikane rendered aid to a dying mother and her children. Walking the beach in search of sponge, we stumbled upon the remnants of the shelter they built to protect their patients from the sun. Those two have good hearts. I am just not certain he is worthy of her.

  That comment begs a question. If given the choice, would I select the intelligent, opinionated doctor over my little Summer Wind? At first glance it would be no contest. Dr. Maria Duarte is not only a highly educated, modern woman she is also younger, curvier, taller and still pretty enough to turn a blind man’s head. Even with its peppering of silver, Duarte’s thick mane of wavy hair becomes one of the seven wonders of this world when she has the opportunity to treat it to a shampoo.

  The downside would be Duarte’s intensity, her penchant for playing by the rules and having her own way. We would quarrel like ravens and owls.

  Summer may be no debutante, but she has her own strengths. I enjoy her wit and organizational skills, her willingness to do what I want to do without debating the issue for hours. She likes taking care of me, and listening when I sing. Before you label me a complete cad, you should know that I have come to enjoy doing things for her as well. We share duties and work well as a team.

  I only understand about half of Summer’s words, but that does not prevent us from engaging in the most delightful conversations. She is a willing and appreciative lover, one who is eager to learn. Jones and I have been teaching our women how to perform a good back rub. It was his idea and I have copied it. We rub them, they rub us, everybody feels better. As this ancient world dries to a crisp, massage is one of the few luxuries available to us.

  Despite the stresses brought on by unending drought, Capt. Jones is as content as I have ever seen him. He loves a woman who adores him. Affection does not always work this way. While his former native mate, Gray Beard’s daughter, Fralista, could be an impatient shrew when he was feeling low, Flower has no problem with his silences. She’s not much of a talker herself.

  It is impossible not to notice that she too is younger and more attractive than Summer Wind. As Jones himself says, he “could do a helluva lot worse.” While he is too shy to proclaim his undying love with words, his actions and contented smiles betray just how deeply his affection for the native girl runs.

  My happiness for them is tempered by the knowledge that their stars may be crossed. Difficult decisions lay ahead.

  Not just for those two, but for Summer Wind and me as well.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  TRANSMISSION:

  Duarte: “Sir, when we sleep, while I’m dreaming your dreams, are you inside mine?”

  Hunter: “Would that bother you, Maria?”

  Duarte: “I don’t know, I don’t think so.”

  Hunter: “Which one? Don’t you know, or don’t you think?”

  Duarte: “I don’t know.”

  Hunter: “Maybe you don’t know because you don’t think! You’re inside there. You’re not an idiot! Where is the Maria Duarte who could hold up her end of a discussion?”

  Duarte: “I don’t know, sir.”

  From the log of Hunter

  (aka–Giovanni Bolzano, Dr. Mitchell Simmons)

  Ethics Specialist

  Having read Duarte’s latest drivel, I’ve decided to approve her leave from the jumpsuit for the remainder of our time with the Denisovans. She needs a break. We’ve observed the clan for three days and nights and she still can’t string two sentences together, at least not two that make a lick of sense.

  Is she playing me? Plotting? The periodic brain scans I run say is she probably isn’t. It will pay to keep a close watch.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Hunter: “I’ll release you under several conditions.”

  Duarte: “Yes, sir.”

  Hunter: “Maria, I need you to focus now. Do you agree to abide by these conditions? It will mean putting the suit back on in a few days for an even longer run. Are you willing to do that?”

  Duarte: “Yes, sir.”

  Hunter: “Do you promise not to give me a hard time, no matter what?”

  Duarte: “Yes, sir.”

  Hunter: “Fine, we’ll draw up a contract.”

  From the log of Maria Duarte

  Chief Botanist

  As ranking officer of The Team and Chief Botanist, I, Dr. Maria Duarte duly pledge to abide by this agreement with Hunter, Commander of the Run.

  I will voluntarily return to my suit in four days.

  I will not try to run away.

  I will remain civil and not cast aspersions.

  This I swear, Dr. Maria Duarte

  TRANSMISSION:

  Hunter: “I see you over there, mentally charting the constellations. Sussed out our latitude yet?

  Duarte: “Why would I talk to you, you . . . prick? You kidnapper! Take me back to Paul this instant!”

  Hunter: “Once again, I promise to return you to your husband and the sailing canoe, but–”

  Duarte: “But first we have ‘important business’ to tend to. Fuck you, Hunter! And fuck your important business!”

  Hunter: “Settle down, they’ll hear you.”

  Duarte: “I don’t give a shit! Take me to him.”

  Hunter: “This is your last warning, Maria. We had a deal and you are not honoring that deal. Listen to all the aspersions you’re casting!”

  Duarte: “Asshole!”

  Hunter: “I mean it. You are one outburst from either crawling back into the suit yourself or getting a dose of knockout sauce so I may again have the pleasure of dressing you. Do I make myself clear?”

  Duarte: “Why don’t you try taking off the damn belt and saying that?”

  Hunter: “What’re you going to do, doctor?”

  Duarte: “Smack that damn grin off your face.”

  From the log of Maria Duarte

  Chief Botanist

  I’m too angry to think straight. That damn Hunter, I could strangle him! We’ve been gone for a month? Paul must be worried to no end.

  My demands to return are flatly denied. Hunter swears I will thank him when this is all said and done. He swears it over and over while stubbornly refusing to elaborate or discuss the matter. “Trust me, it’s important,” he says before withdrawing into the sick world inside his force field. The bastard’s more machine than human, why should I trust him?

  I do believe him when he says Paul and Gray Beard were alive when we left. I remember something about them beaching the kayaks. We trailed them, I think.

  The stars say we are roughly the same latitude as the dry dock site, a bit north, and certainly east. I’d say we’re in the region that will someday become Afghanistan. The mountains and valleys are a lot greener and richer in wildlife than in the old holographic history clips I sat through in school. That Afghanistan had been chewed up and spit out. Nothing remained but a radioac
tive waste of bleak mountains, dry riverbeds and mud-brick ruins.

  If this is Afghanistan, that puts me 1,600 miles from Paul. Even if I can somehow manage to escape and survive traveling alone across such challenging territory, I’d be lucky to average 100 miles a week–about the distance we could have covered in a day on the way here. Blurred by whatever Hunter did to my jumpsuit, memories of that trip are vague and disjointed. I can only imagine what obstacles I will face over a four-month journey.

  Hunter knows I’m thinking about it. Knock him out with a rock and take off. He laughs and dares me to try. “I’ve shut your jumpsuit down. Do you think you could survive alone and un-armored? Even if you succeed in dodging the lions and cannibalistic clans, your man will be long gone before you arrive. Honestly, you have my word. I left him instructions. They’re going to meet us in a different location, one you don’t know and I will not tell you. Come now, Maria, you may as well see it through to the end. Trust me, you’ll be glad you did.”

  TRANSMISSION:

  Duarte: “I’ll make no deals with a machine.”

  Hunter: “I’m all you’ve got, darling.”

  Duarte: “Take off the belt. I want to talk to Mitch Simmons.”

  Hunter: “Mitchell Simmons? He doesn’t exist, never really did.”

  Duarte: “Take off the belt, please.”

  Hunter: “Keep this up and I’ll send you off to la-la land and cram you back in the bloody suit. We need to be on our way soon.”

  Duarte: “Several times every day, you insinuate you want to have sex with me. Is that all talk? Are you a limp noodle?”

  Hunter: “Maria, of all people, you know better than that.”

  Duarte: “Water under the bridge, buster. But since you mention it, we do have a history. Care to renew it?”

  Hunter: “Listen to the little vixen. What trick have you got up your sleeve, Maria? Planning to fox me out of my armor, knock me out and scamper away?”

  Duarte: “I’ve run the numbers. I can’t get back without you. You refuse to take me. I need some leverage, something to trade to get what I want. Paul would understand. Not that we will tell him.”

  Hunter: “You’re full of malarkey, do you know that?”

  Duarte: “Am I? Take off that belt and find out.”

  From the log of Maria Duarte

  Chief Botanist

  I studied the clan from a distance while Hunter wandered in close to provide details over the com line. He claims the hominids are from a branch of mankind known as Denisovan. While I do not have the expertise to refute or support this assertion, these beings do have a different look. They’re definitely not Cro-Magnon. They could be Neanderthal, but they would be the hairiest and slightest through the chest of any Flat Heads we have seen.

  As detailed in the two reports I completed today, their tool making is uniquely simple, yet more refined than Neanderthal. They use red and black dyes to paint geometric designs on the shafts of their flint-tipped spears and the backs of their leather capes. The roles of the sexes are less rigidly defined than in Cro-Magnon and Neanderthal societies. Men and women eat together. One woman hunts with the men and two men gather with the women. Everyone seems to take a hand in protecting and teaching the children. Whether this is a product of current circumstances or the norm, I cannot say.

  Hunter claims they once lived in thriving camps in a lush caldera valley 120 miles southwest of this location. Since his last visit, the clans have been displaced by Cro-Magnon expansion. Having abandoned their fertile lands to the more sophisticated, spear-throwing Cro-Magnons, the survivors have fled to the high elevations, a demanding territory largely uninhabited by man. This wrung-out group appears to be looking for a home to settle in for the fall season, or maybe through winter. At this altitude, it’s going to be cold.

  Unaware of their modern shadows, they’ve roamed every day, winding deep into valleys and scaling up walls to inspect caves and potential campsites. Twice a scout led the way to locations, but generally they just wander en masse, carrying all of their meager belongings with them. Each possible site is inspected carefully by the adults. All take a look around before meeting to discuss its merits.

  Though I do not understand the guttural words and chopping hand signs, these pow-wows remind of the time my parents tried buying a rental property with my aunt and uncle in California. The Denisovans who like a particular cave become advocates extolling its virtues. Dissenters either point out its weak areas or just throw up their hairy arms and walk away.

  Some are seeking a comfortable home, and others a secure hiding place. They must know the winters will be brutal back in these steep valleys, yet seclusion and security are key selling points. They’re wary, always stopping to look over their shoulders. Now that I am out of the suit and must keep my distance, I rely on the optics in my visor and play by play from Hunter to compile my raw data. He dictates and I note what’s useful.

  I won’t say I enjoyed collaborating with my captor, pretending there was nothing amiss, but it was important to get this information down. If these are Denisovans, I guess it’s a pretty big deal. I’ll let the boys and girls in Buffalo decide how big when they read my reports.

  Hunter insists I mention how helpful he was. As much as it pains me to do it, we share authorship on the two Denisovan reports.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Hunter: “This is much better work.”

  Duarte: “Think so?”

  Hunter: “Most certainly.”

  Duarte: “I find there’s clarity without the armor. You should try it. It feels good.”

  Hunter: “I’ll take your word for it.”

  Duarte: “Seriously, if you want to negotiate with me, you’ve got to take off the belt. That thing changes you.”

  Hunter: “Planning to renege on our agreement, Maria. The one you signed.”

  Duarte: “Under duress.”

  Hunter: “Maria?”

  Duarte: “Don’t worry, I’ll keep up my end, but don’t count on me liking it or willingly participating in your fun. I travel with you under protest.”

  Hunter: “You’re going to pout the whole time?”

  Duarte: “Hunter, you can make me run 2,000 miles, but you can’t make me enjoy it.”

  Hunter: “That doesn’t sound like any fun. What do you want?”

  Duarte: “I want to speak to you human to human. I want you to take off that damn belt for at least a couple days so you can explain to me what really is going on.”

  From the log of Hunter

  (aka–Giovanni Bolzano, Dr. Mitchell Simmons)

  Ethics Specialist

  She opened with a right cross I never saw coming. Waited until I glanced to the right and hit me with a sucker punch on the point of the chin. If not for the nanos I probably would have been out on my feet. She’s lucky she didn’t break her hand.

  Duarte followed with an assault on my midsection, but she isn’t the only one who has been participating in Paul Kaikane’s fitness and self-defense classes. I backpeddled to let the cobwebs clear, chucked and jived to frustrate her into a mistake. I’m not proud to say I hit a woman, but we traded blows until my weight and stamina came to bear. Like most tussles, it devolved into a wrestling match. We ended up in the leaves, with me sitting across her waist and pinning her wrists to the ground by her ears.

  For every time she kneed me in the ass, I stretched her arms farther over her head. “Stop kicking, come on now, stop, stop, hey, hey, don’t you dare try to bite me.” My mouth was right next to her left ear as I soothed her. When she tried to bite, I thwarted her by grinding my forehead into her temple. “You’re the one who started this,” I purred. “You’re the one who wanted to make a deal and then broke it first chance she got.”

  I admit the close proximity, physical exertion and heavy breathing created a certain desire within me. Hadn’t she just been talking about shagging? The next time I spoke into her ear, I whispered calming words with a breathiness sure to tickle.

  Gruntin
g, she bucked her hips and jostled my bulging erection against her flat belly as she struggled to break my hold.

  “Do you really want me, Maria? Do you really want to make a deal?”

  “Get the fuck off me, Mitch.”

  What can I say? Rape’s not my cup of tea. When Maria and I do finally shag, she going to come to me. Duarte is going climb on top and ride me the way she did back when she tiptoed into my chateau bedroom not so long ago.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  From the log of Hunter

  Ethics Specialist

  63 A.D.

  “Hunter, come here!”

  Pocketing the currycomb I was circling on the back of Linus’ weary mare, I set off through a maze of clotheslines hung with red tunics and gray undergarments, pyramids of swords, spears and shields, and a soldier barber stropping a razor in front of a line of comrades willing to pay to have their heads shorn.