Rome

by Matthew Thayer

  Weighing our options at the top of the bank, listening to the crackling fire grow so loud it drowned out the distressed birds and bleating wildlife, I knew Jones was contemplating ordering us into the breech. Hearing him sigh over the com line, I turned to see the wildfire had intervened by jumping the river downstream and roaring north. Dash to the sea was taken from play.

  “Let us return to the cave while we still can,” I reasoned (whined). We were responsible for more than ourselves. We had the women to consider.

  “No fuckin’ way. We’ll wait it out in the middle of swamp. Ain’t nothing there to burn.”

  It was a fine idea. So fine, in fact, the animals had already thought of it. Wrung-out mammals, primarily bison, deer and gazelle, blanketed the entire basin. All we could do was skirt along the edge and try not to get kicked or gored. With a blur of red, the big wolf passed within a meter of Jones. A minute later he transited from west to east again.

  “Holy fuck, Sal, check that out!” Jones said, pointing to where embers rained down upon the Palatine. Amidst the fear and adrenaline coursing through my body, there was also an arrow of sadness watching the grove of trees that shaded our garden-top terrace light up as one candle. How many meals had we cooked there? How many sunsets and sunrises watched?

  The sudden plume of heat rising into the air combined with the firestorm roaring at the hill’s southern base to create a most terrifying sight. Black smoke billowing out of Lupercal’s mouth became a spray of sparks and then a great gout of red flame. Picture a lava fountain, or more accurately a welder’s torch, shooting a round beam of concentrated fire 100 meters into the sky.

  Square in the torch’s crosshairs was my tall pine. I loved to sneak up into the tree, take a few pulls from my personal brandy skin and watch the working class go about their affairs. The beam immolated the tree in less than a minute. It was like watching a friend go up in flames.

  Leonglauix conversed with trees. This one talked to me. “Relax,” it said. “Enjoy the day.” I am glad it did not suffer long. These thoughts were not the ones going through my panic-stricken mind at the time. “I want my mamma,” would be far more apropos.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Jones: “We’ll take ‘em to hill cave.”

  Bolzano: “So far?”

  Jones: “You got a better idea, soldier? Wanna go back to your cave?”

  Bolzano: “Heavens no.”

  From the log of Capt. Juniper Jones

  Security Detail II

  Was better thinking about fire as enemy, something to fight, than worrying about Flower. Never took a girlfriend into battle before. Can’t say I liked it much. Hard to keep everything straight when you’re watching to make sure your woman’s hair don’t catch fire again.

  Sal was in same boat with Summer Wind. Could have run a lot faster if he didn’t have to keep stopping to help her. Girls were at big disadvantage not having helmets. Harder to breathe, harder to see, harder to communicate, they had a helluva time.

  Couldn’t decide where to go ‘til red wolf bumped me. Took him a couple passes to make meaning clear. “Take your pack to the hill cave, asshole!” Was he helping us or recruiting us? Still not sure.

  Fire moved slower in flatlands where there wasn’t as much crap to burn. That’s one good thing about the fucking animals eating all the grass and berry bushes to the ground. Hump east was all smoke and ash, roar of fire behind us, lightning bolts and running animals, a lot of them with hides on fire.

  Closing on ridgeline, almost got rammed by two elephants busting out of the trees. Pulled Flower behind a big stone just in time. Didn’t even know we had elephants around here.

  Tough not worrying about shoulder. Heard a pop when I had to grab a rock to keep from falling face first in cave. Pretty sure I tore something. All I know is damn thing was useless when I needed it most.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Bolzano: “What are those?”

  Jones: “Lions, two of ‘em.”

  Bolzano: “Dead?”

  Jones: “Looks like.”

  From the log of Salvatore Bolzano

  Chief Anthropologist & Master Vintner

  Summer Wind became so exhausted trying to outpace the fire chasing us up the ridgeline, I ended up carrying her piggyback the last kilometer. With bare trees and bushes igniting no more than 20 meters to our rear and our leather clothes growing too hot to touch, the fire allowed no time for rest. Jones was kind enough to tote my pack as we made one final push to reach the cave before we too burst into flames.

  Weaving through the field of boulders I refer to as my “rock garden,” I began spotting signs of disruption. Splashes of blood, torn-up ground, a battle had obviously been waged near the cave’s hidden mouth. Rounding the last bend, we found our way blocked by a pair of bloody lionesses.

  Setting Summer to the ground, I untethered my club and spears and accompanied Jones to the cave’s mouth. Clacking our spears together, we drew an immediate response. Having heard a similarly angry roar not too many hours earlier, I was not surprised when a large, irate cave bear charged from the opening.

  “Can’t do this man,” Jones groaned. Eschewing his atlatl, he hoisted a long jabbing spear as the bear began pacing in front of the lionesses.

  “You cannot do what?”

  “Can’t use my fuckin’ arm, man! Let’s get the girls up into the rocks while we can.”

  Our retreat to fetch the women was cut short by a blur of red sailing out of the smoke. Biting off half of the bear’s right ear on his way by, the red wolf cleared the bruin to land at its rear. Though outweighed eight to one, the wolf showed no fear as it buried its fangs into the bear’s left haunch.

  “Attack!” Jones had to shout to be heard over the roar of the onrushing wall of fire. Before I could call into question my friend’s newfound penchant for placing my life on the line for a wild wolf, my woman and his woman had already charged past me brandishing their weapons.

  “Bolzano, throw your fuckin’ spears!”

  Taking two paces to the left to remove my compatriots from the line of fire, I used Leonglauix’s skipping technique to get a running start before releasing my best throwing spear with all my might. I do not believe I even nicked the bear. He ducked his head to snap at the spears of Jones and women just as I cast. My shot sailed high.

  “Fuck, Sal! Keep shooting!”

  The red wolf and humans harried from opposite sides to frustrate the bear. As it advanced on Jones and the women, the red wolf darted in to tear at its genitals. Timing my next cast for the moments after the bear whirled to defend his balls, I scored a direct hit to his left shoulder that seemed to go unnoticed. Getting your balls chewed will do that. Priorities.

  My third and final throw buried in the rib cage, but only to a depth of a quarter meter or so, not enough to cause any real internal damage. Unslinging my heavy war club, I took my place by Summer Wind, batting at the bear’s lightning-quick paws and connecting squarely with a wet, black nose to help forestall one of his final rushes.

  I wish I could claim planning it, perhaps Jones will say he did, but somehow we turned tables on the bear. Despite starting as owner of the cave, he was the one outside looking in when the fire struck. With one final flurry of jabbing spears, snapping wolf jaw and bashing club we forced the bear to run for cover in the boulders. (For the record, the bruin did not survive the blast-furnace temperatures and cascading firebombs.)

  Retreating to the back of the cave to escape the broiling heat, we found ourselves alone with the wolf in a space not much larger than the passenger compartment of my old air car. Uncomfortable? You bet. Unnerving? Once the initial surge of fire passed, we had time to be unnerved. At the start, all we could do is shield our faces from the heat and hope the cave didn’t become a chimney like Lupercal.

  Dense smoke, intense heat, thunderous noise, fear of a flaming bear bursting in to reclaim its territory, there was much to endure in the hour it took for the pyrotechnics to pass. Once the blaze quelled en
ough to allow our ragtag crew to reach the cave’s meager trickle of water, we received a very clear view of how the red wolf views our would-be pack.

  The wolf sat by the seep waiting for Jones to drink. When Juniper tried to defer to the ladies, the wolf nearly bit their heads off. The women backed away and he calmed down. We were baffled. If the wolf was so protective of the water, why wasn’t he filling his gut? He had to be every bit as thirsty as we were.

  Summer Wind was the one who suggested it was matter of hierarchy. She urged Jones to drink and the Captain was able to sup without bother. My assumption to partake next was greeted by a low growl. Deferring to the wolf, I waited nearly 15 minutes for him to lick the limestone wall and lap moisture off the blackened ferns and charred moss.

  I slurped the wall next, and then the women drank together nose to nose. In all, it took more than an hour for us to water and I was still quite thirsty. Demand outpaces the withered seep’s ability to replenish the shallow depression where we once dipped our gourd canteens and hands. It is senseless to complain. Jones phrased it best. “A little thirsty’s better’n fried to a crisp.”

  He and I have relinquished the cave to the sleeping wolf and passed-out women to take up posts atop a warm, flat slab of limestone. Our ridge has undergone quite the transformation. Cleared of shade trees and brush, the cozy picnic area has become a wide-open vantage point, offering sweeping vistas of the roiling smoke and carnage below.

  Despite thundering past no more than four hours ago, the leading wall of flames has advanced northward at least 20 kilometers. In the dwindling twilight, we view the fire’s orange-yellow glow from its rear.

  Left in its wake, thousands of smaller fires continue to blaze all the way to the coast. While the far south is dark, the farther northward you look the more the pockets of fire build in size and density until they merge with the neon glow marching on Umbria and Tuscany.

  Our helmets spared us the worst of the smoke and have allowed us to recover much more quickly than our bleary-eyed, sore-throated companions. Though I was anxious to converse with Summer Wind, she was barely able remain awake long enough to rehash a fraction of the day’s hellish experiences.

  Considering all that has transpired, it is hard to believe we woke this morning in Lupercal. It takes my breath away to think how hard I lobbied to remain with the bats and rats. We would have been vaporized into the heavens.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Bolzano: “I must apologize for my cowardice.”

  Jones: “Whatcha talkin’ about?”

  Bolzano: “If you had not forced us to abandon the cave, we would all be dead.”

  Jones: “Yeah, so?”

  Bolzano: “I was paralyzed by fear, too afraid to move.”

  Jones: “Nah, ya–”

  Bolzano: “You do not understand! I was this close to being one of those men who push women and children out of their way to escape a burning building. I nearly broke!”

  Jones: “But ya didn’t.”

  Bolzano: “I thought about it.”

  Jones: “Sal, believe me when I tell ya this. I’ve seen worse from guys a lot tougher and more gung-ho than you.”

  Bolzano: “I appreciate you saying so, Captain.”

  Jones: “Ya think anything’s alive down there? Been scannin’ for an hour. Don’t see nothin’ movin’, no heat signatures. Ya think everything’s dead?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  From the log of Hunter

  Ethics Specialist

  64 A.D.

  Lady Tullia entered the stone barn while I was brushing the coat of a friendly mare named Livy. The intelligent, gentle paint had become one of my favorite charges over the past two months. Unlike most of the warhorses, I could turn my back on Livy and not worry about being bitten or kicked across the barn.

  Tullia arrived humming a song popular in Persia. Knowing she would call to me if she required help, I kept to my chores as I heard her drag a three-legged stool to the table and pull from a shelf the wax tablet Perdix uses to keep track of the stock. Her humming continued right up to the end of the song, halting one stanza from its tragic end.

  Without thinking, I finished the melancholy ditty with an alternate verse coined by one of my Parthian paramours.

  “As the singing bird reached its happiest note,” I sang softly. “The archer’s arrow sailed by, missing the bird’s beating heart and allowing her to fly to her lover’s nest where they lived in peace forever more.”

  The rhymes may be clunky, but if you ask me, it’s still a hell of a lot better than feathers flying as an arrow takes the beautiful bird through the breast and her heartsick mate flits away to find another lover.

  From the depths of the stall, I heard Tullia cry out. “The bird lives! I like this! Sing it for me again, please!”

  Twice more through wasn’t enough. By the third, she was leaning against the stall’s doorway and singing along.

  “I cannot wait to share this with my friends,” she gushed. “They will love it. This puts me in a mood to ride. You will accompany me.”

  All efforts to dissuade her fell short. Knowing there would be a stiff price to pay with the Greek for cutting in, I slung Tullia’s personal saddle over the mare and went out to the pen to select a surefooted roan for myself.

  Under normal circumstances, Perdix would have ensured he was the one interacting with our mistress. Under his orders, the grooming staff was forbidden to initiate conversation with Lady Tullia. If she asked a question, we were to answer and go back to work.

  Whether Lady Tullia was riding to a community gathering at the temple of Apollo, visiting friends or tending to errands, he was sure to be her escort. Perdix knew who buttered his bread and was quite territorial of her attentions. Did Tullia know he had traveled outside the walls to inspect a lame horse that was for sale? Of course.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll have you back before Perdix returns,” she said with a wink. “I know how he can be.”

  I didn’t think she did, but nodded my agreement anyway. There were many aspects of the Greek’s operations she was not aware of.

  If brother Quintus had been leading, our leisurely ride would have quickly turned into a race across the pasture and into the forest. I would have been leaping stone fences and slaloming between trees just to keep pace.

  Tullia was content to hold her horse to a steady walk. While most highborn women use a sidesaddle, she rides astride, confident and fluid as any cavalry soldier. It wasn’t long before we had a curious little herd tagging along to see where we were headed. Through a rude gate of rusty chain and crossed timbers that had to be taken apart and then reassembled to keep the herd from following, we passed from the valley bottom and began a steep climb to the top of Esquiline Hill.

  “Come, I’ll show you a secret spot Quintus and I share,” Tullia said. Digging her heels into the paint’s sides, slapping its flanks with her reins, she pointed the horse straight uphill and took off like an elevator. Some sections were so bloody vertical we had to lean far forward and wrap our arms around the horses’ necks as they churned the loam and leaf litter beneath their hooves.

  Upon reaching the forested summit, we dismounted to let the horses catch their wind before leading them to a small, hilltop meadow. Once they were hobbled and free to graze, I sidled over to the large flat-topped boulder where Tullia sat surveying the views of her city.

  An unlikely break in the trees lay bare what could be the very best view in the entire city of Rome. Gazing out over the neighbor’s roof, we took in the Forum and surrounding temples shining white in the sun. On this rare clear day, palaces atop the Palatine looked close enough to touch. People moved about like ants. It was easy to make out the chariots and ox carts as they rolled through the streets beneath flowing pennants.

  I was considering whether to mention how the nearby fire pit and refuse from recent picnics proved the spot was no longer a secret when Tullia beat me to the punch.

  “The asshole neighbors have found our plac
e,” she said with disgust. “Bastards.”

  “Isn’t this their property?”

  “Why yes it is, Hunter. Thank you for pointing that out.”

  She ignored me for a while before continuing.

  “They may own the property, but this is and always will be our spot. We’re the ones who girdled the trees around this rock and waited a full year for them to dry before setting them ablaze. That was the best thing I ever talked Quintus into.”

  “I’d like to hear the story, my Lady, that is, if you don’t mind sharing it.”

  Patting the lichen-covered sandstone next to her, she said “Have a seat.”

  The arson was committed when she was 10 years old and Quintus eight. In those days, the family horse business was run by her parents and far more lucrative. As there were plenty of hired hands and slaves to do the work, once the children completed their daily studies they were free to go play and hunt like all good Roman youngsters do.

  “We each carried a short sword and bow and arrows wherever we went. Though we lived within the city walls, Quintus was convinced we would one day run into a pack of wolves.”

  “Did you?”

  “Not wolves, but feral dogs. The pack charged us from over there.”

  “What did you do?”

  “What do you think? Any dog not killed by our arrows was slain by our swords.”