Rome

by Matthew Thayer

  Took Flower on a recon inland today. Two weeks since first rain and whole place is already greening up. Some meadows are a foot high already. Crazy, like everything knows it better grow fast before winter sets in.

  Surprised me to see so many squirrels, rabbits and fox. Up until today it felt like we had Italy all to ourselves. Haven’t spotted deer, horses, bison or humans. Fire must have chased everything a long way. Less birds, bugs, everything. Before the rains, we could walk for miles and not see an animal. Quiet, spooky. Just burned-out trees and sometimes groves of pine, birch or oak that barely looked scorched, but were dying anyway.

  Now trees are sprouting yellow-green leaves like it was spring and small game’s popping out of the ground like crazy. Must have been in hibernation mode. Makes me wonder why we didn’t dig ourselves a burrow somewhere and hide ‘til the fire passed. We had time. Thought never occurred to us. Live and learn.

  Wolf cruised with us whole day, ranging far ahead and patrolling our flanks about a half-mile out. Times we stopped, he found us and went to ground 10 or 20 feet away to watch. Still doesn’t like to be touched, but getting used to being around us. Flower thinks we’re both nuts.

  Back and shoulder feeling bad as they are, I’m glad to have him run interference. Been working on a couple bows and a quiver of arrows. First bow is too stiff for me to pull. Will have to work up to that one. Just finished a lighter unit that wouldn’t do crap against a lion or bear, but works OK on rabbits and porcupine.

  Stopped by Palatine on way back. It’s bald. Every tree’s a black stump or just gone, like it was never there in first place. All that’s left of my camp is a circle of stones. Sal’s cave is scorched clean. No trace of gear we left behind or anything else, no cave bear bones, bats or lynx. Bunch of rocks got knocked down from the roof. Mouth looks smoothed, almost melted along the rim.

  Cave’s dry and sanitary, spring still flows. If there was firewood or shade up there, we’d probably move back.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Hunter: “Please tell me you two idiots didn’t set this fire.”

  Jones: “Damn! Why do you do that?”

  Hunter: “Do what?”

  Jones: “Sneak in and scare people.”

  Hunter: “I thought you might need a pick-me-up before I shed my belt.”

  Jones: “Nah, I’m all right.”

  Hunter: “Must have been some fire.”

  Jones: “Yep.”

  Hunter: “I don’t see Duarte or Kaikane, have they returned yet?”

  Jones: “Nope.”

  Hunter: “Ha! That scurvy wanker owes me a beer. I’ll be back in a few days. Remember, you saw me. I made it back first.”

  From the log of Salvatore Bolzano

  Chief Anthropologist & Master Vintner

  Thank goodness the guest quarters we built are not close to our soggy hovel. Father has returned more quarrelsome than ever. It sounds like he pushed himself quite hard to arrive before our intrepid mariners.

  Though the belt is removed, its negative effects continue to pulse strongly within him. Either that or Jones is correct, my daddy is a “straight-up asshole.”

  We had not been together five minutes before he started picking on Summer Wind. “How come Jones got the pretty one? Why is your girlfriend so old? Were these the only two broads in Italy to survive the fire? Did you draw the short stick?”

  The insults will not leave my mind. I want to march over there and throttle him. His words burn like acid. I keep reminding myself they are as much the belt’s fault as his. And there are the pulsers to consider. The guns have already been pulled on me twice since his return. They too keep me in my seat.

  I care deeply for Summer Wind. Watching him mock her age and worn teeth to her face was more than I could bear. No matter how cutting his remarks, as long as they were directed toward me, I could show tolerance. Next time Father scarfs half my woman’s portion of fish and makes her feel ashamed and frightened, he will know better than to turn his back on me.

  My two-handed shove sent him rolling down the muddy bank toward the Tiber. Snatching up my club, flipping it so I was holding the heavy end in my hand, I set off to dispense a couple well-deserved swats. He zapped me before I could get to him.

  I awoke with my head in Summer Wind’s lap and have not spoken to Father since. He still speaks to me, mainly along two themes. When he is not complaining about the quality of the region’s hunting, he is insinuating either Capt. Jones or I set the wildfire. The absolute destruction atop the Palatine has convinced him Lupercal was the epicenter. He insists the blaze radiated north, south, east and west from there. No matter how many times we explain, he chuckles and calls us liars.

  Straight Up Asshole.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Hunter: “Believe me, I recently spent a stretch of time alone with the uptight bitch.”

  Jones: “Alone with Duarte? Where was Kaikane?”

  Hunter: “I’m sure you’ll hear all about it. The nub is, Duarte’s never going to allow you jokers to transport breeding European Cro-Magnon females across the pond.”

  Jones: “Y’all might be leaving without me then.”

  Hunter: “You’d throw The Team away for a plain-faced native girl too shy to speak?”

  Jones: “Flower talks when there’s something to say, not just hear herself blab.”

  Hunter: “Point taken. There’s another herd of horses grazing in the valley. A good sign. Other animals will not be far behind.”

  Jones: “Liked it quiet. How long ya think ‘til man gets here.”

  Hunter: “Funny you should ask. If you care to direct your attention to the sea, I believe those are sails on the horizon.”

  From the log of Salvatore Bolzano

  Chief Anthropologist & Master Vintner

  If our friends Dr. Maria Duarte, Spc. Paul Kaikane and Leonglauix the storyteller had not returned today, I would begin by regaling you on how proficient our resident wolf is in locating truffles.

  Summer Wind and I were unearthing yet another bed sniffed out by His Hairiness when Kaikane’s hail crackled over the com line.

  “Aloha from the good ship Leilani!” Said the Hawaiian, adding in a playful tone, “Which one of you yahoos burned down the neighborhood?”

  Thankfully Father is off line and could not hear the question. He does not need allies in his insipid inquisition. Jones beat me to an explanation.

  “None of us,” he snapped on the com. “Fire came up from south. Lucky we made it through.”

  “I’m just busting your chops, Jonesy. Hey man, we could use some help anchoring the boat. Feel like a ride over to the island?”

  That was my cue to cut in. After welcoming them, I explained the Captain was restricted to light duty due to back issues, but Father and I would be happy to assist with the landing.

  “Hunter’s here already? Damn. We don’t need that son of a bitch’s help.”

  His bitterness confirmed my suspicions. Father did cause trouble during their travels together. Why else would they boot him off the ship and make him walk home? He has been striving to undermine Duarte’s credibility and Paul’s overall worthiness since he returned. His rants have tamed as the effects of the belt wind down, but I recognize the cadence and rhythm, the furtive looks that say he is lying. Father is guilty of something serious.

  Jones clicked back on the line to ask if the boat repairs were successful and if North America was in our future.

  “Near future,” Kaikane replied. “Leilani’s as ready as she’ll ever be.”

  In a resigned voice, Jones suggested they forgo the island and sail up the Tiber on the high tide. “Just fucking beach on the riverbank below our camp. There’s a sandbar to tie off on. We’ll build a fire to mark your landing zone.”

  “I know that sandbar, but Maria won’t want natives seeing the boat.”

  “Clans took off,” Jones said. “Nobody’s around. Might as well unload the shit ya wanna bury, we can load the stuff we want to take. Better’n
shuttling everything by kayak.”

  Summer Wind and Flower are suddenly nobodies? Did they slip Jones’ mind or was he going all in on my “too contaminated to be left behind” scheme? As far as I am aware, he has not yet treated his sweetheart to any movies.

  Kaikane went silent for several minutes before returning to say the high tide would peak in four hours. They planned to swing by their island to pick up a few items and would need our help beaching the sailing canoe on the riverbank around an hour before sunset.

  “Maria wants to know what’s for dinner?”

  Jones again beat me to the punch.

  “Why don’t she ask herself?”

  “Maria’s off line. Both of us have been. No computers, no helmets for almost two months now. She’ll fill you in later. So, what are we eating, Sal?”

  “Please inform Dr. Duarte we all look forward to your company and to hearing all about your travels. Tonight’s menu is in flux, but rest assured, we will hold nothing back for the prodigal son and daughter. How fares our native elder? Is Leonglauix healthy after such a long voyage?”

  “Happy as a clam. Wait until you see his new dog, Bello . . . oops, I guess that was supposed to be a secret. Forget I said anything. Old man wants to surprise you guys.”

  Capt. Jones seemed to have as many questions as I did, but Kaikane quickly cut us off with, “I’ll give you guys a shout if plans change.” This evening he apologized for his abruptness, admitting the data barrage from his helmet felt as if a hornet’s nest had been “shoved down” over his head.

  Standing at the rudder sporting a new trim hairstyle and same old ratty wolf-fur cape, Kaikane guided the sailing canoe silently upriver, well past camp. Riding the tide and stiff onshore winds, the twin-sailed Leilani cut a majestic profile as she glided to where the Tiber swells to nearly a kilometer wide at the confluence of two tributaries. Thanks to steady rains in the mountains, the Tiber has risen about 12 meters from its low-water mark. Its banks are about halfway returned to pre-drought levels. My archeological dig once again rests beneath the realm of moss and fishes.

  The sandbar below camp juts out into the water to create a downstream eddy perfect for calm water swimming and, it turns out, beaching a long, double-hulled sailing canoe. The tide and river current had almost reached a stalemate as Kaikane deftly maneuvered his craft around the bar and into the dead water.

  Ready at the bows to cast lines stood Dr. Maria Duarte and Leonglauix the storyteller. Both had thick, waxed leather capes draped over their shoulders and fur caps to ward off the damp winter chill. Beneath the capes they dressed for swimming in light fiber mantles. Leonglauix broke into a wide grin as a small, bright-eyed terrier charged to his side to survey the scene with upturned, pointed ears. Though he had the look of a yapper, the mutt held his little red tongue.

  Casting their ropes in unison as the bows touched the sandy bottom, the crew members worked together like a well-greased machine. Father and I each caught a line and held the boat in check as the sailing crew secured the sails and prepared to disembark. Sweeping off her hat to reveal a ponytail of jet black hair, Duarte studied the landing party and its two unexpected female members with a poker face.

  Retreating to the rudder, she and Kaikane engaged in a hushed discussion for a minute before the Hawaiian called out in a blend of English and Green Turtle dialect. “Leonglauix, take the helm!” Grasping his elder gently by the shoulder, looking him in the eye, he continued. “You’re in charge. Leilani gets away from us don’t try to turn. Just get to deep river and out to sea. I’ll paddle to you. Understand? Good.”

  There were no smiles as Duarte and Kaikane tossed half a dozen thick wooden rollers overboard along with several coils of fat rope. Then came a pair of kayaks, lowered one at a time to where Jones and girls could grab them and set them up on the bank. Finally, the couple climbed down a rope ladder to stand on legs left wobbly by more than 40 consecutive days at sea.

  Despite the task at hand, there was time for brief handshakes and slaps on the back for the men, hugs for the women. It was refreshing to see they remembered Summer Wind and Flower by name. Only Father received the cold shoulder. Standing forgotten with a hemp line in his hands, he was snubbed completely.

  Kaikane looked to have aged five years, and Duarte to have shed 10.

  “Sea travel agrees with you, Maria,” I said, inspecting her ponytail. “Are we dyeing our hair now?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “The best kind.”

  “Sorry, Sal. I can’t get into it now.”

  Kaikane began shuffling around to set his rollers and tie off towlines. Once everything was in place, he climbed back aboard and helped Leonglauix spread the sails. We hardly had to pull. Kaikane and Leonglauix basically sailed the canoe up onto the sandbar. Now, with the tide out, she sits high and dry.

  The Hawaiian was not content until Leilani was shored up evenly and we had seen every one of her many repairs and surgical scars. Nifty craftsmanship. What they accomplished with Stone Age tools is astounding. It gives me hope. Maybe this voyage to America is not so farfetched after all. The vessel appears sound.

  Father was not invited to tour the boat. Nor was he included in the friendly banter as Gray Beard showed off his new dog, Bello. They claim he is quite smart. I have my doubts the little guy will ever measure up to Leonglauix’s former prize, the bitch. That was a special dog.

  Supper was nearly ready to be served when Father sidled over to Kaikane and Duarte to offer one of the lamest apologies in the history of atonements. Though still not privy to the details of his transgressions, I had deduced enough to know his mea culpa fell woefully short.

  Kaikane glanced up from helping Maria shave thin truffle slices for our gazelle chops to tell Father to go screw himself.

  “Is it retribution you want?” Father stuck out his chin. “Come on then, give me your best shot. I’ll let you have a free one. One each if she feels like taking a poke at me. Let’s get this over with.”

  Like a cheetah uncurling from a crouch, Kaikane sprung. His sledgehammer fist halted a millimeter short of Father’s jaw.

  “That’s not how it works, Mitchell,” Kaikane said as he backed away. “We’ll take our free shots, but you don’t get to pick when they come. We’re gonna let you squirm, Mitch.”

  Looking over Father’s shoulder toward the forest, Kaikane said, “Well, I’ll be.” The moment Father instinctively turned to see whom or what was coming, Kaikane shot out his hand to clamp down on a pressure point that made him crumple. In a flash, the Hawaiian plucked Father’s guns from his pockets and set them safely aside in the sand.

  “One punch? Mitch, you don’t get to choose that kind of shit.” Hustling Father to his feet, he delivered a haymaker to the solar plexus, followed by an elbow to the back of Father’s neck.

  We have all seen Kaikane fight. Oftentimes it is not a fight to the death but a social correction while defending his wife from grabby strangers. Supremely skilled in martial arts, a national champion in judo and wrestling, he generally comports himself with a sense of fair play. He does not provoke these fights nor punish opponents overly much. If he can let them off with a twisted thumb and bruised ego, that is what he does.

  This beat-down of Father was a different animal, a vestige from the streets and alleys of Hawaii. This was about dishing out as much pain and humiliation as possible, about punishing a man until he’s pissed and shit his pants. Kaikane kept up a running monologue while he issued the pummeling.

  “You ever going to try to steal Maria again?” Knee to the cheek. “Are you, Mitch?” Combo side kicks to the thigh, groin and ribs.

  “Stop, please.”

  “No. You know why, Mitchy?” Kaikane leaned close with his mouth to Father’s ear. “Because you hurt her. She’s still hurting, you son of a bitch.”

  The revelation was followed by a downward elbow that nearly wiped Father’s nose from his face. Jones and I agreed later we had never seen a more methodical, brutal pul
verization. Kaikane had Father whimpering for mercy, begging. At one point he was banging Father’s head against a rock near me. I slipped my moccasin between the rock and Father’s head to prevent him from being killed. Kaikane looked up with pure murder in his eyes.

  “Do you want a piece of this? Do you? Sal? Then move your fucking foot!”

  The distraction gave Father room to make a lunge for his guns. Kaikane quashed this with a knee-drop to the spine.

  “You want a gun, Mitch.” Kaikane snatched up a pulser and forced it into Father’s mouth. “I know you think you’ve got this thing turned off, but what if you don’t, Mitchell? One zap and your nanos are fried. You’re fried. Wanna try and see? Open your eyes, Mitch. It’s time to say goodbye.”

  “Nnnooooo, ppplease.”

  “Mitch, you ever hurt Maria again, I’ll kill you. Jones tells me he and Sal found your belt. They’ve got it stashed. And now I’ve got your guns. If you’re gonna hang with us, you’re gonna have to learn some manners. Now get the fuck out of here. Go on, go!”

  Following Father to the edge of camp, Kaikane sent him stumbling into the dark with a swift kick to the bottom.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Bolzano: “What a beautiful necklace.”

  Duarte: “Why thank you. Just a little something my husband made for me.”

  Bolzano: “Quartz?”

  Duarte: “No, diamond.”

  Bolzano: “You must be joking.”

  Duarte: “Do I look like the sort of a girl who would joke about diamonds?”