Rome

by Matthew Thayer

  “Come on, one more.” Paul was enjoying this as much as I was. Maybe even more.

  The final tube contained a flattish, blood-red oval nearly as long as my pinky finger. The ruby’s length prevented it from turning inside the makeshift tumbler. Sliding up and down with the debris field rather then being tossed to and fro had worn the gem less uniformly than the other four stones. Its top and bottom surfaces remain rough and blemished, but a 1/8th-inch band around the oval’s edge has been polished to a high sheen. It reminds me of photos of the moonshuttle fleet’s passenger ships with their perimeter windows lit up.

  While the ruby is very interesting to look through, I agree with Paul. He suggests we seal it back up in a wider tube and let the whale chaser continue doing its work on the way to Rome. I’m inclined to give the yellow diamond another go as well.

  I have yet to get to that report on the fruit, and we never did take our swim. We spent most of the afternoon talking. He told me about the dangerous hike they took to discover the wash of gems at the bottom of a dried lake. That would have been something special to see. Thankfully, Paul is quite detailed in his stories. I can just picture it.

  At one point, he went to his bunk to retrieve a hidden leather pouch of rough gems and a wrapped quiver of petrified horn tools. The horns were quite impressive and incredibly resilient. I found it much more fun, however, to compare the unpolished gems with the five that had spent months inside their own personal tumblers.

  “Did you know it would work?”

  “Until you opened the first bamboo, I didn’t know what to expect. I had no big expectations, I’ll tell you that. Shoot, when I tossed the dang thing overboard the day we left Syria, I wasn’t even sure the plugs would stay glued in.”

  “Weren’t you worried about losing them?”

  “Nah, we had these.”

  Spreading the rough stones on the mat in bright sunlight, we separated the 149 gems into piles by color and shape. Paul said small, tiny diamonds worked best on his tools. By the time the project was finished, all he had left were big diamonds, along with a few colored stones that turn out to be sapphires, rubies and emeralds. If this were 2230, we’d be zillionaires!

  In 30,000 B.C., gemstones are not so valued as trade goods. They cannot be eaten or made into much of a weapon. I imagine the stones we don’t use for personal jewelry or to trade for items such as honey and shelled nuts before we leave Europe, will probably be buried for The Team alongside the computer. That will be my suggestion. We don’t need to be arguing over treasure or littering North America with non-native stones.

  Now that I mention the cave, I sure hope Salvatore and Jones have found one and have it prepared. That was their only job. It will be quite the disappointment if they are not finished. I wonder how many heavy artifacts from Sal’s Neanderthal dig have actually made the cut. He planned to carry so much. A few round trips probably convinced Salvatore to scale back his inventory.

  No sense worrying about it now. We’ll cross that bridge, haul that load or dig that cave when the time comes. The wind has died and, judging by the band of black clouds forming to the east, Paul thinks it is going to turn tomorrow morning. Racing to stay in front of an oncoming storm is his idea of a good time.

  I have two more minutes to write before we paddle to shore and eat supper with Gray Beard and Bello–and then bring them back aboard and batten everything down to make ready for tomorrow’s early departure. Paul has already netted and cleaned a bag full of octopuses, which we will cook, salt and nibble on for the next few days. He roams the deck, checking lines and waiting for me to put down my computer. He probably thinks I’m working on a report.

  In summation, I’d say this has been a pretty great day. Waking in my husband’s arms, hiking, gathering, feasting and being showered with jewels, it sounds like something Maria Duarte age 12 might have dreamed up. (Minus the electronic microscope, glass gathering slides and pet stallion named “Prince” of her standard childhood daydreams of course!)

  One minute is left. Who knows when I’ll be able to write again? If we do run into heavy weather, we’re going to be busy. All that poor fruit, it’s never going to dry in the rain. I know what Salvatore would do. He’d find a way to make hooch. Maybe that’s not such a bad idea. I’d drink a toast to the happiness I feel right now. I’d even drink one to my husband as he paces by my bunk and pretends to tap an imaginary wristwatch.

  I love him so much. Whatever we lost between us, whatever Hunter tried to steal, it’s been found and is stronger than ever.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  From the log of Hunter

  Ethics Specialist

  64 A.D.

  Our journey to the riverside estate of Linus’ family took most of the day. Following a series of dirt lanes through farro fields, vineyards, olive orchards and thick forest, past hamlets of old stone built Etruscan style, we angled northwest to the banks of the Arrone River.

  Whenever we crested a hill or rounded a turn that offered views of Rome, there it was spewing smoke into the sunny July sky. Unlike the puffy, white clouds sailing overhead, the fumes billowing from the Eternal City were angry and black. Though I’m not the maudlin type, it was impossible not to grieve for the many lives, businesses, temples and homes floating into the air.

  Driving the herd demanded quite a lot of charging to and fro from Quintus, Tullia and Linus. The curious horses were ever veering off to inspect new scents and sounds. Even so, each drover found at least one moment to walk his mount beside the wagon and request a look into his future.

  I’ve fielded these sorts of questions before. Whether it be 30,000 B.C. or 2230 A.D., mankind is more inquisitive than a year-old mare when it comes to life’s riddle of “what’s going to happen to me and my family?”

  I know better than to give folks the impression of prescience, yet still it happens. The problem is, every once in a decade or two, I’ll fall in with people who turn out to be stalwart, smart and kind. I mistakenly start caring for them.

  The relationships chug along smoothly until I ruin things by opening my big mouth. It might be a nugget of sage advice or putting two and two together to make a prediction of trouble ahead. Before long they’re putting me on a pedestal. It’s surprising how quickly friends can turn into followers.

  By my gauge, 50 percent of all humans are superstitious, believers of sorcery and magic. Society’s other half is made up of cynics and skeptics like me. This contrariness creates a balance that makes the world go ‘round.

  ‘Tis a dangerous sign that my masters have already begun treating me differently. The tough Romans are wary, almost frightened to be in my company. The swiftness with which my burns and wounds are healing shakes them. Tullia must have shared tales of me being “in the zone” with my new mace, whirling and smashing despite being run through and hamstrung.

  An Indian Maharaja I saved on a tiger hunt several centuries ago comes to mind. That “friend” was so impressed by my ability to recover from the mauling, he had me chained to a divan for three years. For pieces of gold, his associates could watch me heal from dagger slashes and stabs. The more they paid, the deeper and more creative the mutilation.

  Fortunately for the associates, they were absent the evening the tables turned. The Maharaja and I were the only ones to hear his screams as I cut off his tongue and cauterized the wound with a white-hot knife. His didn’t grow back. I’d like to think our nightlong plunge into agony gave him an appropriate send-off to his next life. Hopefully he returned as an ant that was quickly stepped upon.

  Having been through the drill before, knowing I must depart soon, I milked them for information while employing simple psychiatry. I culled their desires and concerns, rephrased the words, and fed them right back. Good old confirmation bias. Everybody loves to be told what he or she already believes.

  I claimed need of more background information before I could gain a clear picture of their years to come. Quintus and Linus were quizzed on Emperor Nero and the role he play
ed in fighting the great fire. Neither man walked away from the experience a lover of Nero, though Quintus is too much of a soldier to admit it yet.

  “The Emperor has grown fat and soft,” Quintus said with a disappointed shake of his head. “He seemed to want to be part of the fight, to be with the men on the front lines, but he’d show up and we’d have to kneel or stand at attention the whole time. We couldn’t get any work done when he was around.”

  As a cavalryman, Quintus’ primary job was pulling down condemned buildings and hauling away the pieces. He said the worst aspects were ruining good Army horses and withstanding all the vitriol poured upon the troops by the angry residents whose homes and businesses were being destroyed.

  “Nero drew lines on a city map and we cleared those lines.”

  He said they befriended a crew of professional firefighters hired to identify trouble spots that needed to be razed.

  “You hear how firefighters are cheats and thieves who exploit people when their houses are on fire, but these fellows struck me as men of character, true professionals. They were the heroes who saved the Basilica Aemelia.

  “They’d pick a place out, be it a tall ramshackle house with a thatch roof or mansion with terra cotta, and we’d hitch teams of horses to it and yank it down. The residents had been ordered to evacuate days earlier. Was it our fault if they chose to remain behind or left all their possessions?

  “I could have picked up some decent things, but Nero had a squad assigned to collect valuables. Every chance the generals got they warned us that looters would lose a hand, rapists their dicks and arsonists their lives.”

  The wagon had topped a ridge and we were passing a handsome walled manor made of native stone when Quintus surprised me by proclaiming he hoped to someday own such a place. Having perused the family accounts, I knew the likelihood of a Vinarius castle was remote at best. Even so, I said, “That’s interesting, tell me about it.”

  I had no idea how grand his aspirations were. Quintus said his goal was to advance to the rank of general within 10 years and Supreme Commander of the West in 20. His goal was to far exceed the accomplishments of the great-great-grandfather who was awarded the family’s valley in gratitude for his outstanding service in the Parthian War.

  “This move to Iberia concerns me,” he admitted. “Initially, I saw it as an opportunity to make a name for myself in foreign battle. Now, I fear I may be too far from Rome to be noticed. We’ve all heard the stories of how many soldiers billeted in Iberia end up retiring there. Tell me what I should do.”

  Resisting the urge to remind him how many times he’d warned me never to do just that, I gently walked him through the realities of his situation. Drawing from the plan I’d been shaping over the past week, I got him to admit Rome was not the place to be. No battle glory can be found in the field of reconstruction.

  The farm was not going to be viable for years. Even if the buildings hadn’t burned, would it be safe for Lady Tullia to live alone? As an eyewitness to the faces of arsonists who escaped, she could very easily be “disappeared” as the Emperor ties up his loose ends. I didn’t mention Nero by name, Quintus is still not ready to hear it, but I think he knows who hired those fire-starting gladiators as well as I do.

  Most of my plan was concocted while I thought I would still be working for the family. It would have been fun to help guide them to success and power. While I wouldn’t be around to benefit, I elected to nudge him in the right direction. Dropping crumbs to lead him to a proper conclusion, I interjected my thoughts only when he became stalled.

  “They say Iberia is good horse country,” I mused.

  “This fire may cause the Army to shift resources. I wonder if that will affect the boats intended to carry your cohort and its horses.”

  “Look at this growing herd. With no place to graze, you will have to sell. Too bad we couldn’t take all your personal stock to Iberia with you. You and your sister have assembled a nice string of brood mares.”

  Within a mile, my plan was his plan. He and Linus would volunteer to move the Army’s horses overland so the transport ships could be reassigned to the recovery effort. Their men would be happy to take a long ride through friendly territory instead of pulling their guts out at the oars for two weeks.

  He strayed off script by announcing Tullia would be sent to Perusia to be married.

  “She’ll be safe there. We have a second cousin, a grinder of grains, who recently became a widow. Cousin Miller expressed interest in Tullia last time we spoke. He’ll take her.”

  I wondered out loud if she could be more useful to him in other ways.

  “It’s too bad you can’t kidnap her and take her to Iberia. You’ll be so busy earning medals and promotions you’re going to need someone you can trust. She has a real knack with the horses. I’m sure you’ll find somebody like her there.”

  “I wouldn’t need to force her,” he retorted. “I could just ask if she wanted to go and see what she says.”

  “A great idea,” I said. “Why didn’t I think of it?”

  Soot-stained and exhausted, he grew so quiet it was hard to tell if he was pondering the plan or snoozing in the saddle. Rousing, he turned for one last try.

  “You still haven’t answered my question, Hunter. What is my future? Glory in battle? Beautiful wife? A big home full of children?”

  If I denied foresight would he believe me?

  “I see that you are capable of greatness, but cannot say how high your trajectory will take you. Opportunity awaits in the west, both militarily and personally. There’s a dark-haired woman with full hips perfect for bearing children destined to marry you. You’ll know she’s the one when you see her.”

  Pretending to wince in pain, I begged off.

  “Master, that’s all I know. I’m tired and my wounds ache. Give me a day to think and I will see if any more insights come to me.”

  “Do it.”

  With that he was off to fetch a trio of horses that had wandered into a roadside vineyard.

  Linus walked his horse up next. Unlike his working-class friend, the deputy had no problem voicing his scorn for Rome’s supreme leader. He applied no sugarcoating when I asked for his impressions.

  “Nero’s not only a fat fuck, he’s mad.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Well, one hears stories of course, but we spent time in his orbit several times a day. He made the rounds as all puffed-up generals and politicians do. Pointing and posing, offering dumb suggestions, he just got in the way. While Quintus was saluting and bowing, taking orders, I kept to the side and studied the Emperor. Behind the meanness in his eyes and the conviction in his voice, there’s confusion.”

  “What does he look like?”

  “Nero’s got the neck of a bull and dick of a mouse.”

  That got my attention. “You saw Nero’s penis?”

  “Everyone sees Nero’s penis! How can you not? The man is always flopping it out to take a piss or hiking his toga to scratch his balls. He’s so deep into his own thoughts he thinks he’s alone. On the second day we fought the fire, Nero was addressing a couple hundred of us when he just stopped in midsentence to begin talking to a general engineer next to him. He never did finish his thought, just walked over to a bush, pulled out his dick and took a dribbly piss.”

  “That does smell of derangement.”

  “Is my father correct, does Nero have to go?”

  Goodness, this sort of talk could get them all killed.

  “I have no idea, sir, except to say those are very dangerous words. Nero is in power and probably will be for some time. He will want to find scapegoats for the fire. I would not want to be one of those who are blamed.

  “He’s already pinned it on the Christians. Didn’t Quintus tell you? He was having the poor devils thrown into the fire as sacrifices to the Gods. This will be the end of that cult in Rome.”

  To his credit, most of his questions involved his parents, their safety and longevity. He is a go
od son.

  As with Quintus, Linus also didn’t press me on too hard on how I managed to survive another killing wound. He went straight to asking for his future. I guided him to conclusions by turning his own thoughts and words back upon him. His parents may enjoy visiting Iberia, I hinted. Perhaps the Senator and his wife could make an official visit. If Nero is mad enough to burn down half of Rome to make room for a personal wonderland, he’s surely capable of harming those who oppose him.

  When I asked if he thought Nero purposely started the fire, Linus did not hesitate with his answer. He said reliable witnesses reported it began by accident in a candle shop near Circus Maximus. The shop owner was behind in his protection payments and the fire crew assigned to the area refused to help until he paid in full. Stoked by the wind, the fire soon jumped to neighboring buildings and then the stands of the Circus itself. Flying embers carried to the Palatine and other downwind neighborhoods.

  “Nero didn’t start the original fire, but I have no doubt his men helped orchestrate its progress. Too many opposition members’ homes were lost, and supporters’ left untouched, to be coincidence. We firefighters did too good of a job. I can imagine the bloated rooster looking over the ruins of the city and realizing it stopped just short. In another few days all the land he covets for Neropolis, the Esquiline Hill, would have been razed.”

  Having read the history books I knew he was correct, but played devil’s advocate anyway.

  “Where is your proof?”

  “Those gladiators in the valley were Nero’s men.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “I recognized two.”

  “Rather risky on Nero’s part, wouldn’t you say?”

  “As I stated, he’s mad. He’s too drunk on power to realize how obvious his crimes are.”