Rome

by Matthew Thayer

  Standing back to back, we faced off against the circle of men. Flaming embers from the neighbor’s home rained down upon the valley as we waited. Brandishing spears, swords, maces and wooden cudgels, the warriors studied the towering flames and smoke behind us.

  “We’ve got to get out of this valley,” growled a man carrying a basket and cattails.

  “You worry like a woman,” retorted a man gripping a heavy mace in his meaty hand. “This lassie has bigger balls than you, fire man. Most women beg and cry. This one fights like a tiger!”

  “Then grant her a quick release or marry her! We must depart!”

  Romulus hit them like a bowling ball with teeth. Sprinting up the fence line unseen, the silent killer ripped out the neck of the biggest man, the gladiator with the mace, with his first bite. In the ensuing confusion, I grabbed the mace and began swinging it as if I were felling trees.

  Remus turned the tide. Unwilling to be left out of the fight, the monster snapped his leash and charged for the fray

  “Here comes another one!” a man shouted as Remus loped across the pasture. Faced with another ferocious war dog, growing conflagrations on both sides of the valley and assaults by Tullia with her long sword and me with my appropriated mace, the attackers broke and ran. Vaulting the pasture fences and climbing the valley walls, they headed for the paths they hoped would lead them out of the valley.

  The dogs were far too consumed by bloodlust to be whistled off the chase. I took several strides toward the house before realizing my legs weren’t working properly. Apparently, I’d been stabbed several places in the abdomen and my calves had been slashed.

  Circling back to slip her arm around my waist, Tullia said, “You were in the zone again.”

  “Leave me.”

  “I can’t. Somebody needs to drive the wagon.”

  On the way, the herd passed us, led by the same squirrely mare that had initiated all the problems. Flinging the top gate open, we left it to the horses to decide if they were ready to pass through or burn in the valley where trees smoldered and patches of grass were bursting into flames.

  Rounding the side of the house intent on saddling a new horse for Tullia and getting the hell out, we stumbled right into a group of arsonists stealing the wagon.

  The frantic men were so preoccupied trying to claim the heavily loaded vehicle they didn’t see us. Smoke billowed from the house’s kitchen window and flames flickered through the doorway of the barn.

  Two men sat in the bench seat whipping the reins and shouting, while others crowded the draft horses from the sides, pushing and slapping. No matter what they shouted or how many times they whipped, the superbly trained animals refused to collaborate with enemies.

  The horses tied to the tailgate had won so much respect with their teeth and hooves, the arsonists weren’t even bothering them. I suppose we could have abandoned the wagon and tried to outrun the fire on foot, but the word capitulation is not in Lady Tullia’s vocabulary. Giving my arm a squeeze and a look that said, “You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to,” she hefted her long sword and strode toward certain death.

  I was surprised to find the mace was still in my hand as I limped after her. Ashes and embers rained into the smoked-filled valley, starting fires everywhere, including a nearby hayrack that went up with a whoosh.

  “Thieves!” Tullia called to get their attention. “Arsonists! Prepare for Hades!”

  Their gasps of fear surprised me. What could a woman and wounded man do to inspire such trepidation in a dozen gladiators? Suddenly, two sprouted javelins from their chests. Amid the tumult and roaring fire, I didn’t register the hoof beats until Quintus and Linus charged past.

  If Romulus hit like a bowling ball, the decurion and his deputy were a tidal wave of steel and horseflesh. Trampling, slashing with long swords, red plumes flapping on the crowns of their polished helmets, they felled six men on their first pass. Wheeling in graceful, opposite arcs they ended with their mounts perfectly side by side. Kicking their battering-ram formation into a gallop, they steamrolled the knot of men forming a defense by the wagon.

  Blinded to the gouts of flames shooting through the barn’s roof and the fact that all three palaces topping the valley walls were blazing, the cavalrymen were not satisfied until every last arsonist was run down. Linus seemed to expend a lot of energy making his kills, while Quintus reminded me of the Hawaiian surfer Paul Kaikane in battle with his graceful, fluid way of making each deadly swing count.

  Tullia was running to the wagon as her hair caught fire. I had to put it out with my hands. There was no time to saddle her a horse. We pulled leather tarps over our heads to shield us from the flying sparks and embers, climbed into the wagon’s seat, gave the draft horses the proper whistle and were off.

  I tip my hat to those war animals and the men who trained them. They didn’t even flinch as we stormed across the burning pasture, through the gates opened by Quintus and up a lane with trees flaring into matchsticks on both sides.

  “Ya! Get!” I shouted, slapping the draft horses with the reins. In front of us, Linus led the herd to the spoke road and turned left for the Esquiline’s northernmost gate through the Servian Wall. With the fire racing behind us there was no slowing the horses until we were outside the city and into fresh air. Cutting a wake through an exodus of refugees carrying everything from corpses and mattresses to plundered statues with arms already broken off, we were waved through the gate by centurions who saw the uniforms of Linus and Quintus and asked no questions. I suppose they could have stepped into the middle of the road and put their hands out, but I doubt the horses would have listened.

  In total, we lost only five out of 72 horses. Four wandered off or were stolen, and one stepped in a badger hole and had to be sacrificed to the Gods.

  Stopping the wagon outside the city gates, I was saddling a horse for Tullia when we discovered an ember smoldering in a stack of horse blankets. Lucky we stopped, for we very well could have been driving along and had the entire wagon burst into flames beneath us. Wouldn’t that have been a pisser?

  Three hours out of town, a pair of bloody, battle-scared war dogs named Romulus and Remus trotted up beside the wagon. Reining to a stop, I waited for them to jump in the wagon and get settled before whistling the draft horses on.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  TRANSMISSION:

  Duarte: “What do crocodile eggs taste like?”

  Hunter: “How in bloody hell should I know?”

  Duarte: “We could bake some. We’ll never find any fresher than those.”

  Hunter: “Better let her finish laying before you try nicking her eggs.”

  Duarte: “I was hoping you’d do the honors.”

  Hunter: “Trying to get me killed?”

  Duarte: “If you won’t take off the belt, I should at least get some benefit. I’m sick of your crankiness and lack of patience.”

  Hunter: “If you’d put the goddamn jumpsuit back on I wouldn’t need to have so much patience.”

  Duarte: “You’re an asshole!”

  Hunter: “You walk too bloody slow!”

  From the log of Maria Duarte

  Chief Botanist

  Much to the chagrin of my surly, yellow-eyed escort, the afternoon’s intense heat has driven me to ground. I’m not moving until sundown no matter what he says. It was too hot to think, let alone keep up with a man charging through the lantana like a threshing machine.

  He’s off pouting somewhere while I sprawl in the shade of a withered acacia, swatting flies and dripping sweat. I’ve been left a pulser and he did a half-ass job of clearing the area of lions and dogs. As long as I don’t fall too soundly asleep I should be OK. I suggested he take a run to blow off steam and he blinked from sight. He could be 10 miles away, or 10 feet, fuming inside his bubble. My ardent hope is he’s down by the Nile picking more sweet melons. I’m getting hungry again. Grubs and grasshoppers only carry a girl so far.

  This angry version of Hunter
is similar to the one we experienced up in Galway. His temper is set to a hair trigger. He jumps on any slight or question of authority, will bicker over every point, no matter how trivial. My back talk turns him into a seething shitbag. Forgive me for sugarcoating it like that. The guy’s been a colossal prick.

  In Afghanistan, I would have ranked “Tour Guide” Hunter’s human / machine ratio at around 75-25. He’s now spiking in the 5-95 range, clinging to his humanity by the barest of threads.

  I’ve got to get him out of that belt.

  TRANSMISSION

  Hunter: “If I do take it off, you won’t be satisfied. A day won’t pass before you’re after me for more concessions. More, more, more! That’s how it always works with you!”

  Duarte: “I won’t argue that.”

  Hunter: “You admit it! What else do you want? My balls?”

  Duarte: “In a way. I want you to stop procreating. For good.”

  Hunter: “That again. I knew it.”

  Duarte: “You’re the one who labels himself an Ethics Specialist. Does this behavior seem ethical to you? Do your desires trump the good of the planet and all of mankind?”

  Hunter: “Bloody easy for you to say. It’s a lot to give up.”

  Duarte: “I’m not asking you to abstain from sex, I’m asking you to stop producing children.”

  Hunter: “Like I can just turn it off.”

  Duarte: “You could try. If you concentrate on it, I bet you could give yourself a virtual vasectomy, or turn your champion swimmers into slugs.”

  Hunter: “What’s it worth to you?”

  Duarte: “As long as you’re in that armor you’ll never know.”

  From the log of Hunter

  (aka–Giovanni Bolzano, Dr. Mitchell Simmons)

  Ethics Specialist

  I’m not certain I’m ready to give Maria back to the surfer. Even if she is a nagging wench, what has Mr. Aloha Smiley ever done to deserve such a prize? If the Einstein III hadn’t wrecked she would have been studying plants around the world while he taught yoga and played board games below decks. There isn’t a chance in hell he could have landed her under regular circumstances.

  Why do so many girls like Duarte end up with duds like him? They could do much better, but for some reason they settle. No matter how obvious their mismatch or how little their spouses contribute to the union, they’re blind to it. My question is this, are these women being blinded by love or blindsided?

  She’s after me to shed my armor. I admit I have been out of sorts, maybe pushing her a bit hard. If only she’d don her armor, we could go for a nice run before catching the boat home. I do not see myself going anywhere near Kaikane without armor. I’m sure the former champion wrestler would like to put me in a pretzel hold and ask why I absconded with his wife for four months.

  I can always put it back on before the rendezvous. Maybe a short break from the belt is in order. We’re not all that far away from Fireplace Camp. A pause might do me good.

  TRANSMISSION

  Hunter: “This duck is delicious.”

  Duarte: “Honey glaze sets it apart.”

  Hunter: “My mother’s recipe, give or take a few ingredients.”

  Duarte: “It’s good to have you back in the land of the living.”

  Hunter: “Thank you, Maria. As our journey nears its end, I’m enjoying seeing things through my own eyes again.”

  Duarte: “You’re sure we’re not going to be late for Paul?”

  Hunter: “They are not due for three days and we’re less than 20 miles from the rendezvous point. If we push hard we could be there tomorrow.”

  Duarte: “Have you thought about what I said?”

  Hunter: “Of course.”

  From the log of Maria Duarte

  Chief Botanist

  Hunter’s been out of the suit for two and a half days and still not quite back to what I would term normal. I imagine a heroin addict removed from the needle having similar body aches and mood swings.

  Over our dinner of duck and avocado-like squash this evening, he showed flashes of his old self. He says we may reunite with Paul and Gray Beard tomorrow. I wouldn’t put it past them to be early. My men.

  If they ever learn what I am about to do, I hope they can find it in their hearts to forgive me.

  TRANSMISSION

  Hunter: “Maria, what’s this all about?”

  Duarte: “You’ve got a deal.”

  From the log of Hunter

  (aka–Giovanni Bolzano, Dr. Mitchell Simmons)

  Ethics Specialist

  She came to me in the dead of night, just as she did in my chalet so long ago. Letting her long hair cascade over my face as she straddled me, Duarte slowly leaned to nibble my ear. “I know it’s wrong, but I want you,” she purred.

  The first time she said those words was in 2231 Scotland. We had been working together in steering committee meetings all day and dining with associates all evening. Apart from several charged glances, there were no outward signs of our desire. No one had a clue. I played the role of aristocratic host and Duarte that of demure junior Team member.

  I had been laying the foundation of this conquest for months. Sometimes it’s the ones you don’t expect, the bookworms and librarians, who transform into tigresses in the sack. I was curious to see if that would be the case with the workaholic botanist with wavy raven hair and almond eyes.

  Owing to an extended time in the suit, Duarte’s hair is once again dark and luxurious. The younger version of Duarte, the one who invaded my bed, was soft and smooth. That vixen wasn’t overweight, just fleshier and less battle-worn than the one who slowly dragged a nipple across my face until it found my lips.

  “Suck it,” she whispered. Again, just as I remembered. Our first encounter must have left as much of an impression on Duarte as it did me. I waited for the next line and there it was, right on time.

  “How do you define fucking?”

  After a bit of thought, I said, “It is a physically sexual act which includes penetration.” Verbatim to the response I gave back in my room overlooking the moors. Jesting the tedious jargon of our afternoon meetings, nibbling and kissing, we hashed out what congress between us was permissible since I was technically her superior. We decided she should be on top to forestall any claims she was forced. Intercourse involves physical movement, we reasoned. If we went slowly enough, and only in and out once, that would be different.

  I suppose it loses something in translation, but with the kissing and heavy breathing, the way she moaned when I slipped my fingers into the warmth between her legs, our ethical discourse was quite saucy.

  “One time in, that’s all we’re allowed,” Duarte moaned as she reached back and positioned me at the gates of heaven. “Are we agreed?”

  Ignoring the thrum of Africa, howling baboons and trumpets of elephant, I laid back to study her in the moonlight. This Duarte was hardened and polished by life in the Stone Age, sporting a well-defined musculature and not one ounce of fat. This was no kid fresh out of graduate school.

  “Yes, Maria, I agree.”

  “No more babies, right?”

  “I’ll try.”

  “Try not to. Agreed?”

  “Agreed.”

  “And you take me to Paul tomorrow.”

  “Yes, I agree.”

  “All right then. Don’t you move.”

  Lowering herself slowly, ever so slowly, she took me inside her velvet sleeve. “Quiet, doctor, they’ll hear us,” she admonished, exactly as she did in Scotland. Taking me to the hilt, clinging tight with her legs and arms, she began flexing the muscles in her womb in the most pleasurable way.

  “You still know that trick, huh?”

  “Like riding an air bike, some things you never forget.”

  Just as we did in her youth, we pitched our plans of moderation and boffed like maniacs for the rest of the night. It is nice to see Duarte remains an inventive and passionate lover. I won’t bore you with the details, but let’s just sa
y she’ll probably be walking bowlegged tomorrow.

  TRANSMISSION

  Duarte: “How long will the simulation last?”

  UberMind: “It’s his memory. How long did you two fornicate in Scotland?”

  Duarte: “I remember being so tired the next day. I’d say, pretty much all night.”

  UnerMind: “There’s your answer.”

  Duarte: “Why did I have to do that? You could have started the sim at the beginning.”

  UberMind: “We had a deal. Penetration, actual sex was required.”

  Duarte: “Why?”

  UberMind: “You humans fascinate me. In spite of all your flaws, your penchants for recklessness, aggression and waste, each of you is capable of sacrificing self for the good of others. Given the proper set of stimuli and circumstances, humans will time and again lay down their lives to protect complete strangers. Trust me when I tell you not all species in the universe would take one for the team as you just did.”