Rome

by Matthew Thayer

  “All the more reason to help Quintus and Tullia take a string of horses to Iberia, sir. Let the historians decide Nero’s fate when they write his obituary. Is that Quintus hollering for you? I thought I heard him call your name.”

  Watching Linus trot to the front of the herd, red horsehair plume flapping from the crown of his helmet, I had to smile. No matter the epoch, the old “Hey kid, your mother’s calling you” trick works nearly every time.

  His family’s estate turned out to be a tidy checkerboard of farmland and woodlots bisected by the narrow but swift-running Arrone River. An arch bridge of stone and mortar crossed the river in the center of the property, wide enough to cross two wagons at a time. Perched atop a knoll overlooking the river was a walled network of buildings that, being generous, could be called a castle.

  Bringing the herd up well short of the property’s southern boundary, Linus and Quintus left Tullia and me to keep watch over the stock while they announced our arrival. It sounds like the grand patriarch is a right stickler when it comes to following protocol and decorum. Linus said we needed permission to place the horses in an empty paddock. He didn’t sound confident such consent would be granted.

  Fortunately, the horses were too tired to do anything but water in the nearby stream and hang their heads to crop grass. The dogs roused to jump down and take long pisses before settling in the shade under the wagon and once again drifting off to sleep.

  Stepping gingerly down from the wagon, I held Tullia’s horse by its bridle as she dismounted. Stiff, she stretched her arms over her head and groaned.

  “By Gods, I feel like we’ve been riding for a week, not a day.”

  “It’s been an eventful one, my Lady.”

  “It certainly has. Thank you for not running away along with the others.”

  “And miss all the fun?”

  Excusing ourselves, we each found a private setting to take care of nature’s calls. My urine flowed an alarmingly blood red. Walking back to the wagon, the roiling in my gut made every step a challenge.

  “You look like boarshit,” Tullia said frankly as she joined me in a shaded patch of clover. As I had nothing to add to that, we sat in silence and watched the drowsy horses swish their tails.

  “I was divorced,” Tullia finally said. “Did you know that?

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “I thought you knew everything.”

  “You’d be amazed by what I don’t know.”

  She studied me with me a wizened smirk.

  “I bet I’d be more amazed by what you do know.”

  “Please tell me about your divorce. How did that make you feel?”

  As a homely daughter from a family with few prospects, Tullia Vinarius was married off at 16 years of age to a much older man. She said her father hated to lose such a trusted hand with the horses, but by Roman standards she was already getting long in the tooth. Off she was sent.

  I didn’t interrupt to contend she was not homely and now wish I had. Tullia may not fit the ideal standard of beauty, her face may seem a bit long and jaw a little too square to fit current convention, but she takes no pains with makeup and hairstyling to augment her strengths or minimize her perceived “flaws.”

  In many ways, she reminds me of another woman who shunned cosmetics, Dr. Maria Duarte. Both are strong women who would rather play against a stacked deck than not play at all. Neither wastes time complaining about society’s biases. Tullia burns with the same warrior spirit, intensity and resolve as Duarte. She’s just as prone to seriousness, which makes her smile and laughter light up a room all the more. While Duarte may have been blessed with the comelier face, Tullia has the same thick, black mane, round bottom and cleavage that could be quite alluring if she thought to display it.

  To hear Tullia tell the story, she married a man who lived only for orgies, drinking and eating to excess. Born to wealth, he felt it was his duty to spend what previous generations had accumulated. After his first wife choked to death, ostensibly on a garum-spiced meatball but more likely at his hands, he took an extensive tour of the Mediterranean.

  Returning to Rome with a war chest full of boring tales and suffering from malaria, he didn’t find many takers to the announcement he was in the market for a new, young wife. Following a surprisingly brief negotiation, Tullia and her modest dowry were transported to the Palatine for a simple marriage and painfully depraved honeymoon.

  Glutton that he was, her husband preferred to have sex with multiple partners at the same time. Tullia swirled at the middle of this sexual whirlpool for a summer before slowly gravitating to the edges to become more observer than active participant. Calling her “Big Hands” and “Man Face,” the husband made cruel jokes at her expense. Even as his disdain grew, he refused to give her leave of the bedchamber during his romps.

  One of the only positives to come out of the experience was a clearer understanding of her sexuality. An inkling she had been carrying with her since childhood, the feeling she was far more attracted to women than men, was confirmed. Walking back to her father’s farm to declare her divorce, her only regret was leaving the ebony-skinned concubine who had become her confidante and lover.

  “Was I meant to be born a man,” she asked, voice cracking.

  “No, you were born exactly who you were meant to be. The Gods do not make mistakes in these matters.”

  “Am I different or am I normal?”

  “My Lady, we are all both. You can be happy being who you are or unhappy pretending to be who you aren’t. The choice is yours, though I think you have already made it.”

  She plucked a weed from the ground and chewed its stem as she mulled my words.

  “My father used to say, ‘Don’t worry about the things you don’t have. Be happy with what you do.’”

  “That’s sage advice. When you think of it, nearly every family has a pair of bachelor uncles or spinster aunts who never married, but have lived in the same house for 50 years. They show up to functions together, finish each other’s sentences and endure jokes about how they act just like an old married couple.

  “I’m not suggesting you take another woman as spouse this afternoon, but someday the opportunity may present itself. As you travel, you may find not every place is as open and sexually tolerant as Rome. Believe it or not, there are some backwaters where homosexuals are severely persecuted.”

  As usual with Tullia, she was one step ahead of me.

  “Places like Iberia, you mean?”

  “I’m not sure how things currently stand in Iberia, but the land has a history of conservatism. It never hurts to be discreet until you truly know which way the wind blows.”

  “What makes you think Quintus will take me?”

  “In truth, he’ll do it because he needs you, on the trail and once we reach wherever it is they’re posted. That’s not the reason I’d give your brother, however. If I were you, I’d say Rome is no longer safe. Those arsonists who got away, they saw your face, and mine too, I might add. I doubt they will be stupid enough to report their failure, but if they do, our lives could be in considerable jeopardy.”

  Pricking their ears, the horses alerted us to Quintus and Linus walking their horses slowly up the road.

  “Is that it?” Tullia asked. “Is that all you have to tell me?”

  “No, and this is very important, for I fear Quintus may not bother. You must always make sure the taxes are paid on the valley property. Never let this lapse, never be late, for I believe your sliver of land will increase in value. Some day, you and Quintus may return to Rome with crates full of gold and wish to rebuild. They are not making any more land inside the Servian Wall. I think the valley would be a great place to raise children.”

  “For Quintus, when he finally marries, you mean?”

  “Yes, but why not you too? I think you would make a good mother.”

  “Were you listening earlier?”

  “Of course, but that doesn’t mean you couldn’t find a big Gaul or daring Iber
ian to provide the seed. You’re a horse breeder, you understand the process.”

  “You are a strange man, Hunter.”

  “I know. We can talk more about my failings tomorrow. Just promise you’ll make sure the taxes are paid. We’ll need a place to live if we ever return.”

  “So you’re going with us to Iberia?”

  “Where else?”

  “Anything to add before they arrive?”

  “Wherever you end up, never install lead plumbing.”

  From the log of Hunter

  Ethics Specialist

  64 A.D.

  I waited an hour after the last candle in the castle was extinguished before slipping from my tent and saddling the red gelding I had bridled at dusk.

  From the wagon, I removed a leather sack labeled “Hunter” that contained my confiscated gold chain, jewels and coins. The chain looked to be light a few links and the coins were down about half. Tossing the chain into the bed of the wagon and placing three of the finest rings and a large ivory brooch on the driver’s seat, I slipped the cord of the lightened bag over my shoulder and began saddling up.

  I hated stealing a horse, but knew the dogs would have no trouble tracking me if I absconded on foot. A certain black mare that could run all day would have been my first choice, but I settled on an older gelding that would not be overly missed.

  Once again in my long, strange life, it was time to slink off in the middle of the night.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  TRANSMISSION:

  Bolzano: “What are you making?”

  Jones: “What’s it look like?”

  Bolzano: “I would say it strongly resembles a type of technology forbidden to us by The Team.”

  Jones: “Can’t throw bolts. Gotta have some way to hunt and defend me and Flower.”

  Bolzano: “I am not the person you need to convince.”

  Jones: “Thought they’d be back by now.”

  Bolzano: “Does Duarte strike you as capable of murder?”

  Jones: “Seen Maria kill before. Tough on her.”

  Bolzano: “Could she sentence someone to death?”

  Jones: “What’re ya gettin’ at?”

  Bolzano: “I treated Summer Wind to a pair of movies last night. She enjoyed them immensely. You might say it was life-changing.”

  Jones: “She ain’t gonna kill ya for that.”

  Bolzano: “Not me, Summer Wind.”

  Jones: “Huh?”

  Bolzano: “Summer is tainted. How could we possibly leave her behind if we do indeed set sail for America?”

  Jones: “Typical Sal, rigging the system.”

  Bolzano: “Scoff if you must, but you may want to consider instituting your own movie night with Flower.”

  Jones: “And ya were given’ me shit about a fuckin’ bow and arrow.”

  From the log of Salvatore Bolzano

  Chief Anthropologist & Master Vintner

  Rain! Sweet, wonderful rain!

  A front began welling up out of the west yesterday, and although we have been disappointed by many would-be storms, these cumulonimbus clouds carried a smell of moisture that gave reason to hope. Summer Wind certainly thought so.

  We had slept under the stars every night since moving near the fire-ravaged coast. Without trees to block the view, our nightly entertainment became studying the heavens, counting shooting stars and gambling on which direction the comets would come from next.

  “No stars tonight,” Summer said as we basked together in the sun after our morning constitutionals in the river. “Tonight, ker-boooom.” The resident weather girl was calling for thunder and lightning.

  It was time to finally construct our teepees. The four of us have been gathering components for months–scouring kilometers of beach and burned out woodlands in search of posts and poles, procuring skins and curing them into leather tarps we hoped would be waterproof.

  Assembling frames stout enough to hold the weight of the skins once they became saturated with rainwater was one challenge. Another was convincing Summer Wind to set aside her passion for Feng Shui and let me site the doors so the prevailing winds would keep our squat, oddly humped teepee from filling with smoke. I jest about Feng Shui. Her concerns were based on fear of the “Nocturnal Marchers,” malevolent spirits who do not like to be hindered as they travel up and down hills. I got my way and now see the wind has shifted and she was right after all.

  We pitched our dwelling in the same place we had been spreading our sleeping skins, a choice piece of high ground near the top of the riverbank. When it’s not rainy and foggy, the location offers stunning views of the Tiber, the Mediterranean and the Hills of Rome.

  Jones and Flower beat us to the campgrounds and had first pick of where to lay their heads. They claimed the traditional alpha clan leader’s residence. The flat, sandy area with large circular fire pit is set hard at the base of a sandstone outcropping.

  They invited us to be neighbors. The bluff provides shelter from the wind and elements, but also obstructs the views of both sea and stars. I never would have chosen such a spot. As the wind buffets our tent and threatens to carry our leaky tarps away, I see the wisdom in their location.

  The first flashes of lightning lit up the sky around the turn of midnight, bolts so far to the west their muffled reports took minutes to reach our ears. Even Cro-Magnons understand the risk of jinxing a thing you want by talking about it. We spoke of everything but the weather as the winds off the sea began to show some earnestness and a star-blotting blanket of clouds turned our world black.

  Rome’s first rains in more than 18 months announced themselves with the prettiest little pitter-patter on the walls of our teepee not long after daybreak. Pulling me from our warm bed, Summer led the way outside. Standing nude under the growing drizzle, spreading our arms wide, we tipped our faces to the sky and savored the chill drops even though they gave us goose flesh and made Sal Jr. shrivel and hide.

  Jones and I feared the first rains, if too powerful, would trigger gully-washers and mudslides. This land is in a precarious state. It would not take a monsoon to wash away the blackened soil. So far, we could not have asked for a more suitable rain. It has fallen steadily for the past eight hours with only two short downpours. Rome and environs are enjoying a nice, gradual soaking.

  The four of us soldiered through a stroll in the rain together this afternoon. After so long of hot and dusty, would it be sacrilege to complain about wet and frigid? I held my tongue as we followed the riverbank trail down to the sea to comb the beach for firewood, sponges and sustenance. Dark skies, blustery winds, gulls skimming over gray, white-capped seas, it was all quite refreshing. As long as I kept moving to stay warm my teeth did not chatter too severely.

  Our associate the red wolf made an appearance on the uphill return. Standing about four meters off the muddy path as Summer Wind and I trudged by, each dragging a travois made from and loaded with firewood, he waited for Jones to pull even before tipping his head back and emitting a long howl. The wolf is not playful, barely friendly, but that howl carried a note of pure happiness. “It is finally raininggggggggg! A-A-Aahooooooo!”

  Now snug in our tent overlooking the wide banks of the Tiber, stomachs full of cooked oysters, clams, shearwater eggs and steamed kelp, Summer Wind and I are content to idle away the rest of the day by catching up on chores. As with most native women, her hands are perpetually busy, ever making or repairing something. Today it is a new pair of moccasins. Tomorrow may be jewelry or spear points.

  Summer Wind and Flower were first to recognize the potential presented by the thousands of charred megafauna carcasses piled along the narrow, clear-running Tiber. This was two months ago, the day we initially took up residence in the traditional Cro-Magnon river camp.

  Jones and I first viewed the carcasses as detriments to our quiet, deserted haven. Where we saw pestilence and tainted water, the women envisioned resources. They did not even bother sharing their plan, just sat down and knapped a satche
l full of skinning flints our first night in camp.

  The next morning, Capt. Jones and I were led down to the river to begin harvesting fire-scorched hides that had been flensed of hair and cured to rubbery hardness by the unrelenting sun. Even though 999 out of 1,000 hides were unusable, our girls were able to root out a few water buffalo, aurochs and larger bison with intact skins. Having harvested hides in similar states at other times in their lives, they knew the skins would peel away with a minimum of cutting and effort. Once removed and spread out pink-side up on the cracked riverbank, we set about the grisly business of collecting brains to cure the leather.

  As Jones would say, that was rough duty. His back was out for weeks after helping drag the heavy hides up to camp. For a man who has always prided himself on being strong and independent, it torments him to leave the heavy lifting to the women and an Italian anthropologist.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Bolzano: “Rabbits? Where did you find rabbits?”

  Jones: “Hills are crawlin’ with ‘em.”

  Bolzano: “Can you spare a couple for us?”

  Jones: “Take ‘em all. Flower and I’ll eat supper over here. Maybe ya can bake ‘em with that stuff ya always put on rabbit.”

  Bolzano: “Although I lack the ingredients for that particular marinade, we will do these bunnies proud.”

  Jones: “Sunset?”

  Bolzano: “Reservations for four.”

  From the log of Capt. Juniper Jones

  Security Detail II