Rome

by Matthew Thayer

  “Get up, we’ve got to get moving. You can eat on the way.”

  Was there more than machine impatience in his voice? Was it worry I discerned?

  “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “Who said there’s anything wrong? Just hurry.”

  TRANSMISSION:

  Duarte: “Run away, Paul! Run!”

  Hunter: “Careful, you’ll ruin your singing voice for his funeral.”

  From the log of Paul Kaikane

  Recreation Specialist

  The mistake was bringing Gray Beard and Bello. If they weren’t there, I probably could have escaped. Fight my way through a few guys, work down to the kayak and paddle downstream to lead them away. It might’ve worked.

  We were sitting with our backs against the fireplace, watching the river as a pack of crocodiles swarmed a wounded hippo, when he caught his first whiff of trouble.

  “There are men coming. Use your gourd hat to look far. Tell me what you see.”

  Flipping down my visor, I zoomed in and gave him the rundown on a crew of about 15 dark guys dressed in leather loincloths and sandals, covering the terrain like a pack of hyena. The men carried no packs or gear other than throwing spears, clubs and long antler knives. A middle-aged guy with lighter hair led the way. We’d lose sight of them when they dipped into gullies or thick stuff, but they weren’t trying to be sneaky. Every time they popped up they’d be closer. No doubt, they were headed our way.

  Looking over to the old man, I saw he was pushing Bello’s head gently down into the pouch he keeps him in to protect against eagles and hawks. “What do you want to do about these guys?” I asked.

  “You should ask me what I want to do about the ones behind and below us. Don’t look. It’s better if they think we don’t know they are there.”

  Until he pointed it out, I hadn’t noticed how the birds and monkeys had gone quiet.

  “How many?”

  “Too many. Let’s play some bones,” he said, clapping his hands.

  “I don’t think this is a–”

  “Ah ha! So you are afraid to lose to your elder!”

  Dragging himself to his feet, he pretended to walk like an old-timer with a bent back and exaggerated limp. Passing close, he gave me his “don’t you back talk me” look.

  “There’s a bag of bones in the front pouch of your pack. I put it there. Get the bag and let’s play.”

  TRANSMISSION:

  Hunter: “Run faster, Maria. We’re going to miss it.”

  Duarte: “You promised to deliver me safe to Paul and Leonglauix. That implies they must be alive to receive me.”

  Hunter: “Bah! Keep that lawyerly gobbledygook to yourself! I promised to assure your safety, not theirs. What’s your plan, Maria? What are you going to do once you get there? You don’t even have a weapon.”

  Duarte: “I’ve got this!”

  Hunter: “Alas, I should have said something earlier. The pulsar you carry has been switched to off.”

  Duarte: “Asshole!”

  Hunter: “Mind that snake in yonder tree. He’d swallow you in one bite.”

  From the log of Maria Duarte

  Chief Botanist

  Half trotting and half stumbling down an ancient north-south trail through grassland and intermittent trees, I did my best to block out Hunter’s goading and concentrate solely on putting one aching, bloody foot in front of the other. His insistence we rush had taken on an unsettling urgency.

  The shift came as we passed a fork in the trail and intersected the tracks of a large group of Cro-Magnons. Hunter studied the prints briefly, then abruptly demanded I turn over my pack. I was more than happy to let him carry it. Toting the heavy pack was one of my punishments for refusing to wear the suit. He claimed he would protect me from the lions, cobras, baboons, cheetahs and wild dogs, but he would not “bloody carry the bloody pack.”

  At first, I thought maybe he was being helpful. Human. Fat chance. Then, for a mile or two, I thought he might actually be worried about Paul and Leonglauix’s well-being. Once he started telling me about the tracks, how they belonged to one of his sons’ clans, I realized he had arranged a deadly tete-a-tete. All he was worried about was missing the action.

  “Remember the chap who collects gorilla paws? These are his tracks.”

  “Where is he headed?”

  “The same place we are. I planned to get there before him, stave off any trouble as he meets his half brother. I should have known at least one of them would be early. What if they’re both early? Each son is very high functioning. And territorial. You never know what sort of mayhem they’ll get up to. Hurry now, we don’t want to miss it.”

  TRANSMISSION:

  Kaikane: “Maria, if you’re out there, look sharp. There’s trouble in this sector. If you are not in armor, do not approach. I repeat, do not approach until we get this sorted out. I love you, babe.”

  From the log of Paul Kaikane

  Recreation Specialist

  Trying to act casual, looking out of the side of my eye, I watched them fan out to surround the quartz fireplace. Gray Beard didn’t even look up, just made a big production out of throwing the bones. His hot streak continued with five crossed bones and two stuck point-first in the sand.

  “Ha! I win again, you bloody wanker!”

  The razz started out in Green Turtle and ended in English. Gray Beard always dishes smack when he’s winning, but usually in more subtle ways. He’ll bug out his eyes, or ask if we want him to teach us how it is done again. We make big bets–”loser has to carry all the game back to camp for a moon’s worth of days”–then never collect or pay. It’s all about the competition, beating the other guy. Entertainment in a same-old, same-old world.

  He got up again, staggered through a little Green Turtle victory dance. “You suck! You suck! I win!”

  He dropped back to the ground, chuckling. Pushing the bones to my side, he mocked, “You! You! Throw! Don’t be afraid little boy.”

  Two can play that game. “Oh yeah, well your momma was so fat every time she went swimming male walruses tried to mate with her.”

  He gave me his “don’t you be talkin’ about my momma” look, but kept up the jive. “Throw, throw the bones.”

  I understood the strategy, make love not war, but it was tough just sitting there as they held their positions without a word. Every guy had at least one spear pointed at our guts.

  “Fuck these guys,” Gray Beard said with a laugh like a female goat in heat. “Throw, throw the bones.”

  He’s not the only one who knows how to cheat. Making a show out of tossing a handful of bones with my left hand, I quickly flicked two with my right that stuck point-first in the sand.

  “You cheat me!” Gray Beard shouted in trade dialect, pointing at my hands. Turning to the closest guy, he asked, “Did you see him cheat? He cheats, right?” He paused to study the face of the boss man, check out the dried-up gorilla paw hanging from the center of his necklace, before shrugging. “It’s OK, I cheat too.” Turning back to me, he laughed. “Come on, boy, count up the points. Did you cheat well enough to win?”

  He sat with his legs stiff and angled off to the side in an uncomfortable direction. Pretending it didn’t send shivers down my spine to lean over and expose my neck, I did as he said. Five bones crossed and two stuck.

  “We tie,” I croaked.

  “Ah ha! A tie. I throw again. Give me the bones, boy!” Looking the leader in his bright green eyes, he said, “Watch this!”

  He did the thing where he holds his left arm out in front of him and snaps his throwing wrist over it to make the bones spin on their way to the sand. I’d never seen all seven bones stick before. Somehow he pulled it off, while sitting like an arthritic cripple.

  All the guys surrounding us knew they had seen a special thing. “Whoo, whoo, whoo!” They elbowed each other and pointed, chirping something that meant, “Helluva shot!” The voices woke Bello, who stuck his head out of his bag and started barking. Thin
gs moved fast after that.

  One of the hairy, smelly dudes made a grab for the dog and Gray Beard about cut his hand off with one pass of the diamond-coated saber he’d been sitting on. One second he was lying awkwardly and the next he was rolling and slashing. The storyteller ended up crouched with the tip of his petrified horn pressed against the green-eyed leader’s inner thigh. One poke and he’d open the femoral artery. Gorilla Paw Man would have about a minute to say his goodbyes.

  His face paled as he looked down to see how truly fucked he was. Gorilla Paw hadn’t even cleared his curved club from his belt. The half-second he spent watching his clan member’s hand flop and squirt blood cost him dearly and he knew it.

  With a press that brought a trickle of blood from the tender skin, Gray Beard pointed at the gorilla paw with his free hand and asked in trade dialect, “Doogan? You Doogan? Son of Hunter?”

  The guy’s eyes narrowed. I could see the wheels turning. Holding up his right hand, he signaled the punks who were chattering and thinking about throwing spears to knock it off. Barking orders in a language I’d never heard, he told his men to help the wounded guy before he bled to death.

  I was going to suggest they put a tourniquet on his arm, but they were already on it. A couple guys held him still while two tied his arm off above the wound with a leather cord. Green Eyes watched to make sure they had it under control, then looked down to the old man and asked in trade dialect, “Leonglauix? Leonglauix of the North?” His tone said he didn’t think it was possible.

  Gray Beard smiled and held up his hand for a lift. Side by side they were the same height and build, about 5 feet 10 and rangy with strong forearms and hands. Doogan was probably 20 years younger, just starting to get flecks of gray in his curly brown hair. His green eyes were much brighter and a deeper color than Gray Beard’s. They had that same glow from within as Hunter’s.

  Putting a hand on the man’s shoulder in the Cro-Magnon way of family and close friends, Gray Beard reversed the diamond-edged sword and handed it over. Talk about your all-out maneuvers, it was his only weapon unless he had a bone knife hidden somewhere. He gave him time to check its weight and test the edge before giving his shoulder a friendly squeeze. “Brother,” he said.

  The thought of brotherhood caught Doogan off guard. With the sigh of a hunter watching a herd of deer escape, he pulled the curved club from his belt and offered it. You could tell he really liked that club, hated to see it go. Gray Beard knew it too, but there was no turning down a gift, especially from family.

  I make it sound like everything went straight to hunky-Doryville, which is far from the truth. I kept my back against the fireplace and my head on a swivel looking to see who was going to be the first to cock and throw a spear. There may have been too many to beat, but I let those punks know I planned to go down swinging.

  My duty was to guard the old man’s back while he and Doogan settled into the dirt and started working through the language barrier the way Cro-Magnons do. Beyond basic trade words, points, noises and pantomime go a long way in this world. He was showing his dog to his half brother without trying to talk Bello up too much, when Maria slipped in beside me. Huffing and puffing, she grabbed one of the throwing spears I had stuck in the ground.

  “What the hell’s going on?” No “hello” or “honey, I’m home,” just my wife getting down to business. Dried mud up to her waist, chest heaving, she barely looked me in the eye.

  “Gray Beard’s trying not to brag on his new dog,” I said. “He’s afraid they’ll steal her. Hi, Maria, how’ve you been?”

  TRANSMISSION:

  Duarte: “Paul, be careful.”

  Hunter: “As I was saying, you’re wasting your breath. Bloody shame we must circle this swamp. Care to stop and dive into your jumpsuit? We’d be there in no time.”

  Duarte: “No. Never again.”

  Hunter: “Stubborn bitch. We’re going to miss it!”

  Duarte: “Leave me. Go, you fucking scumbag!”

  Hunter: “I can’t and you know it! Everything from vultures to warthogs is stalking you. That same pack of dogs has been on your trail for at least five miles. No matter how many times I shock them they return.”

  Duarte: “Why don’t you paint them with the pulser? Get it over with?”

  Hunter: “We don’t want to make any noise now, do we? That would muck up the experiment, flaw the data.”

  Duarte: “Flaw the data?”

  Hunter: “I’ve always considered Doogan and Leonglauix two of the best. I never thought their paths would cross. This is a prime opportunity to compare and contrast the capabilities of north versus south.”

  Duarte: “You’re nothing more then a sadistic little boy trying to make a pair of crawfish fight.”

  Hunter: “Are you saying I’ll pinch their sides and bash their heads together until one pulls the other’s claws and tentacles off? Well done, Maria. That’s a rather fitting analogy. Hurry now, hate to miss that!”

  From the log of Maria Duarte

  Chief Botanist

  “I’ll make a deal with you,” Hunter said as he pulled me over the giant trunk of a recently fallen albizia tree. “As long as you keep your bloody mouth shut and don’t squirrel with my party, I’ll deliver you to your man’s side. Just let events unfold naturally. If your surfer is dead you’re welcome to scream your fool head off. The south will have won and we will have missed it. Hurry now, decide. We’re nearing our first outpost.”

  There were no warnings to “sit down” before Hunter pulsed the sentries into unconsciousness. The resulting falls caused several gashed foreheads, loosened teeth and one broken collarbone, but no fatalities. Reaching the summit, he unexpectedly expanded his shield to encompass me as we weaved through the armed hunters.

  “It was interesting talking to you, Maria,” my mother called from the void. “Remember what I told you.”

  Her voice hit like a punch to the heart, but there was no time to process it for we were through the men and approaching Paul. Jaw set, legs slightly bent and spread in the “ready” position, he was posed to fight. He held no spear, did not display such openly aggressive behavior, but there were six shafts close at hand. It would take less than a second for him to pluck one out of the ground and let fly.

  Who was this stranger? I barely recognized him as I was spit from the field. Resisting the urge to take his hand in mine, I positioned myself to guard his right flank. Gone was the long, flowing hair I had been dreaming of running my fingers through. The soft beard and mustache I had longed to kiss were scraped away, replaced by a light shadow crisscrossed with scratches and cuts.

  Easily 20 pounds lighter than when we abandoned him, Paul could have passed for a cancer patient the way his bald, outsized head overtopped such a lean frame. Bone and tendon beneath stretched brown skin. Hands etched with new white scars, remnants of wayward splinters, saws and awls, evidence of his massive woodworking success and my failure. Many of the scars were welled up and puckered to show they not only went unstitched, but also probably became infected. Where was the family doctor when she was needed?

  Guilt filled, worried, wondering if I was going to be in the middle of a rumble, I kept my word to Hunter to remain silent and let events unfold. Paul must have thought he was married to the coldest bitch alive.

  We stood side by side, not touching, as Hunter appeared in front of Leonglauix and the clan leader named Doogan. The two men were squatting cross-legged in the loam, weapons across their laps, as Gray Beard demonstrated how to throw the bones. Neither man bothered to get up, or do anything else to show their father the respect usually given to elders. Their manner said they had been expecting “the man who does not grow old.”

  Leonglauix took a throw and made a lesson out of counting the points aloud in trade dialect and also in hand sign, signaling one through four with gnarled fingers, fives with a closed hand.

  “Sixteen,” three pumps of the fist followed by one finger. He shrugged to imply there was nothing easie
r.

  Doogan’s clansmen leaned close as the storyteller showed the best way to arrange a stack for the throw. Handing the tight wad of squirrel, rabbit and eagle bones to Doogan, he gestured for him to try until he matched 16.

  Dried gorilla paw swaying with each toss, the half brother needed 13 tries to post an equal score. After that, they goaded Hunter into trying. He took a few turns with little effort or success. I guess that stupid belt can’t do everything.

  While watching Gray Beard, I saw he kept one hand on a leather bag. I didn’t know what was so important until a little, wire-haired mutt wriggled its head out the top. It didn’t seem to mind being confined, just sat with one eye on his master and the other on what was going on around him.

  I’ve since learned Bello is his name. I have yet to hear how the storyteller came to possess the dog, which looks a bit like a rat terrier, but Gray Beard and Paul both claim he is the smartest dog this side of the Father Mountains. I’m not convinced yet.

  By noon, the clan had transformed the hilltop into a camp. Dusty and sparingly dressed to match the African heat, nearly all the women, children and elders arrived packing food or equipment such as shade tents and clay cookware. The air quickly became filled with chatter and the smell of fires and cooked meat. Not one blaze was built in the grand fireplace, probably because we were standing in it. I suppose we would have abandoned the high ground if anybody bothered to ask. Nobody did.