by Gregg Loomis
“Be quick to dismount, Severenus,” came a voice from behind me.
Turning, I saw a figure in a black cape, his face concealed both by its folds and the final darkness of the night.
“Who tells me when to dismount?” I snapped, unused to taking orders since my father’s death.
Undaunted, the stranger replied, “The dead tell you. In your room you will find suitable vestmenta. Once you have put them on, come outside and follow the slave with the torch.”
“It is dark. Any slave on the street will be carrying a torch for his master.”
“Then you must select the correct one.”
The stranger stepped back into the deeper of the shadows. By the time I reached the spot where he had been, the man was gone.
On the way to my room I was accosted by a young girl, perhaps ten or eleven, her face gaudily painted. Prostitutes were not allowed to solicit business at respectable inns, since several men occupied the same bed. The farther one got from Rome, the less enthusiasm the local authorities had for enforcing the rule.
I shooed her away. As she slunk down the stairs with a sultry look far beyond her years, I wondered what such a meeting might portend. ^4
I retired to my cubiculum ^5 to change. On top of the rough-woven covers was a cloak similar to the one I had seen in the courtyard below. Stripping off my horse-sweat-soaked clothes, I exchanged them for a clean tunic, over which I tossed the new cloak and went back downstairs. Outside the gate to the inn, a lone slave waited with a torch.
I followed down dark and deserted alleys, fearful of robbers or worse, until we came to a marble-lined doorway dug into the side of a hill. The hair on the back of my neck felt as though it were rising when the door swung open without sign or sound from my guide. Inside, a long hallway was lit by lamps.
My guide wordlessly stood aside and pointed to an open door through which I entered a small room. Its dimensions were such that I could neither lie down nor stand erect. As the door shut, the light of lamps revealed the most terrifying paintings on the walls: people with various deforming and hideous diseases, old age, hunger, death, insanity, and all matter of evil were vividly displayed. ^6 Had I known I would be left alone to confront such fearful images, visited only on occasion, as food and drink were brought by silent figures who left after refreshing the lamps, I might have wavered in my resolve to come here. ^7
Whether day or a night-I could not tell-a single bowl was placed before me filled with vegetables cooked in strange spices. After each meal, a different god or spirit would appear, though none would converse with me. ^8 At other intervals, my keepers would bathe me with strange-smelling waters and massage my body with oils. ^9
I know not how long I remained there, but at least twice priests in black robes with high, pointed headgear ^10 sacrificed one of the bullocks I had provided, examined its liver, and, finding the lobes flawed, postponed my journey. With each delay, the spirits who visited me became increasingly angry, and I began to wonder if I would go mad.
NOTES
1. Not to be confused with his father, Marcus Vipsanius Agrippa, senator and statesman.
2. Notably Actium, a sea battle in which the forces of Antony and Cleopatra were defeated 31 b.c.
3. A small pond that was the opening to the cistern common to villas and inns where the viaducts did not run or did not supply sufficient water.
4. Few things in Roman life were without possible significance in foretelling the future: the formation of a flight of birds, the frequency of croaking frogs, persons accidentally met on the street. Like most ancient cultures, the Romans used a number of methods to ascertain their fortunes: extispicy, or augury by inspection of animal entrails, particularly the liver, oracles, and omens. Interestingly, astrology did not become a popular method of divination in Rome until about the time of Christ, although other cultures-Babylonian, Egyptian, Greek-had seen the future in the stars for millennia.
5. A closet-sized, windowless room usually large enough to hold only the bed. Any activity other than deeping was conducted elsewhere. A stone slab was covered with a stuffed cloth mattress.
6. Virgil’s Aeneid gives a similar description of such a room.
7. Alone, confronted by his fears, perpetual light, cramped and uncomfortable quarters, sleep deprivation, visited only by those bringing sustenance, at the mercy of unknown keepers-Tactus’s captivity bears a remarkable resemblance to so-called brainwashing techniques or modern interrogation methods designed to break down the subject’s resistance and perception of reality.
8. Pliny the Elder tells of a number of hallucinogenic plants with oracular connections, such as thorn apple, whose roots were made into a sort of tea; and henbane and nightshade (belladonna), both deadly poisons if used carelessly. Indeed, Greco-Roman oracular history is full of pilgrims to the underworld who never returned, their “spirits having been retained by other shades.” Other accounts tell of travelers to Hades whose dispositions were forever changed or who died within months of their return. Coincidence or misuse of drugs?
9. The skin, the body’s largest organ, is absorbent, as anyone who has ever used anything as common as suntan lotion knows. What is frequently overlooked is the skin’s ability to absorb drugs applied as salves or ointments.
10. The conical hats of religious penitents, medieval witches, and the Ku Klux Klan.
PART IV
Chapter Twenty-two
Over the Tyrrhenian Sea
The next day
Maria slept most of the brief flight. In fact, she had slept most of the previous day once they had checked into a small hotel. Jason supposed it was a means of avoiding thinking about what had happened and what had nearly happened.
Jason had used the time the day before to make a call from a pay phone to an unsecured number in Sardinia. Without his BlackBerry, getting a secure message to D.C. presented a problem, since all calls worldwide were subjected to monitoring, not just the few that raised the political ire of the civil libertarians in the United States. The redeeming feature, of course, was that no entity or country possessed the assets to actually translate and evaluate any but communications between persons of interest. The truly unnerving fact was the question of the security of the system. Who might be monitoring the monitors? Despite the howls of politicians who knew the truth anyway, privacy had become no more than unexamined information, or, in the current euphemism, data at rest.
Even so, if someone was sophisticated enough to hack into ECHELON, they certainly could set key words to flag any specific communication. He longed for the days when a pay phone guaranteed anonymity.
Jason finally decided on an innocuous telegram he could only hope would be correctly interpreted.
MAMA STOP BAD BOYS BROKE BLACKBERRY AND LOST TRAVEL SUPPLIES FOR SELF AND WIFE STOP WILL WAIT REPLACEMENT TELEGRAPH/POSTAL OFFICE CALABRIA STOP JASON
Fairly transparent, but it was unlikely the other side would ever guess something as primitive as a transoceanic telegraph would be used. Additionally, since the nearly ancient Atlantic cable carried the few messages that still were exchanged in this manner, no one had bothered to develop the technology to monitor such messages. Satellites could not intercept messages on landlines.
Like most European countries, Italy’s telephone and telegraph functions were operated by the postal service. Jason left the post office, checked on Maria (still asleep), had lunch, and took in the few sights Calabria had to offer, then spent the one-o’clock-to-four-o’clock siesta sipping espresso and reading a two-day-old International Herald Tribune at an outdoor table at a small trattoria.
His patience was rewarded in the late afternoon when he returned to the post office. A courier from the American attache in Naples had delivered a plain brown paper package.
Back at the hotel, Jason hurriedly unwrapped the parcel, removing a United States passport jacket for Ms. Sarah Rugger of Tampa, Florida, presumably the wife of William Rugger, the name and residence on Jason’s second set of identification. A
lso there was an appropriate Florida driver’s permit blank, Visa and American Express cards, a small digital camera, a gadget similar to one used to impress notary or corporate seals on documents, and another BlackBerry.
Why Florida? he wondered. Nice place to visit, but you wouldn’t want to vote there.
A note from Mama cautioned more care in the future.
Slowly waking to Jason’s persuasion, Maria needed no encouragement to apply makeup and brush her hair once she saw the camera. Jason took two pictures of her, being certain the background was different in each.
Down the street, he found a UPS business center, where he had the pictures printed. Back in the room, he glued the pictures onto the passport and used the press to apply a reasonable facsimile of the U.S. seal. There was little he could do with the driver’s license other than make sure the application of the photo was smooth and hope that the holograms would pass muster. It was the passport that got the closest scrutiny anyway, he told himself.
Finished, he had gone back outside and deposited camera and seal in different trash bins before finding an Alitalia office and booking two tickets to Rome the next day.
If Eco hacked into the reservation system, they would find of interest any American couple and would have someone watching the airport to make a positive sighting.
This morning they had indeed driven to the small airport and parked the Explorer in a conspicuous place in the lot. Jason had then signaled a cab for the short ride to other side of the field, where the five-or six-plane general aviation fleet was based.
After some discussion with the field’s only charter service, they boarded a DeHaviland Twin Otter, a highwing, fixed-gear twin designed for takeoff and landing on short, rugged terrain. Jason had patiently explained that he was interested in being transported to a specific location that was unlikely to have an airstrip.
Language was only a minor barrier, since English was the international language of aviation. A Russian Aeroflot pilot approaching Hong Kong International Airport would speak English with the Chinese air traffic controller. The only exception was France and spheres of French influence, where the sanctity of the French language was deemed a greater priority than air safety.
For that matter, the French deemed it a greater priority than anything Jason could think of, with the posible exceptions of wine and sex.
Luckily, he was not dealing with the French, a fact for which he was always grateful.
Maria was asleep before the tires left the ground.
The jaw-jarring return to earth gave truth to the hoary pilots’ axiom that a landing was only a controlled crash. Had he not tightened Maria’s seat belt, she would have been thrown to the floor.
From the window, Jason could see nothing but dust swirling from the field in which they had landed. The right engine shut down, the plane pivoted, and one of the two crew members came back from the cockpit to open the door.
“These es eet,” he said in accented English. “Th’ coordinates you wanted.”
The jolt of the landing had Maria wide awake. “This is no airport,” she observed, sitting up straight and peering out the window. “This is some sort of a farm.”
The dust had almost settled when they reached the bottom of the aircraft’s three steps. They had no sooner put both feet on the ground than the door retracted while the pilot restarted the right engine, taxied downwind, and took off almost straight up. Both Jason and Maria closed their eyes against a cloud of flying grit of Saharan proportions.
When they finally dared open dirt-encrusted eyes, they were facing a man standing in front of a battered Volvo. He was perhaps six feet tall with a huge white walrus mustache. Silver hair was visible underneath a tweed cap he wore despite the season. The headgear was the same color as his jacket. A dress shirt, complete with tie, was stuffed into corduroy pants, which, in turn, were bloused over the tops of knee boots, the rubber sort the English called wellies.
As the last of the dust settled, he used both hands to brush himself off and approach. When he got within handshaking distance, his blue eyes twinkled as though with a wry story he was impatient to tell.
Instead of shaking, he embraced Jason with a squeeze any grizzly bear might envy. “Jason, lad!,” he exclaimed. “It’s been too long! Welcome to Silanus.”
The accent was guttural, yet musical, the sound of his hereditary Gaelic, a language common in Europe half a millennium before Rome existed, now clinging tenuously to the continent’s westernmost fringes. The tongue was fading but, for the time being, secure in his native Scottish Highlands.
Jason managed to extricate himself and turned to Maria. “Adrian, this is Maria Bergenghetti. Or should I say Dr. Maria Bergenghetti?”
Maria involuntarily flinched as the Scot approached, fearful she, too, would receive a suffocating hug.
Instead he bowed from the waist, extending a hand. “A pleasure, lassie. Welcome to you also. The lout ye’re with’s too uncivilized for a proper introduction. I’m Adrian Graham, major, Her Majesty’s First Grenadiers, retired.” He winked at Jason. “I’d be pleased if you’d just call me Adrian.”
Maria seemed uncertain whether her hand would be shaken or kissed. She held it out nonetheless, showing relief at the conventional shake.
“Adrian’s an old, er, business associate,” Jason added. “Retired here to Sardinia.”
Actually, Adrian’s affiliation with the grenadiers, Her Majesty’s or otherwise, had been extraordinarily brief. He had hardly finished basic training when his fierce competitiveness and total lack of fear of any man (or rank) had brought him to the attention of Special Air Services, SAS, a semiclandestine, small-unit combat force generally considered to be made up of the best commandos in the world. The service had a lot more to do with special than air, the name dating back to World War II, when its men were usually parachuted behind enemy lines to perform the service’s raison d’etre: murder, arson, and general mayhem.
In large part the American Special Forces, the parent of Delta Force, had been patterned after SAS.
Jason and Adrian had met during the chaos of the Bosnian Conflict, when both English and American “peacekeepers” were taking fire from both sides, Muslim and Christian, each intent on exterminating the other.
That day both men had been separated from their individual units and from their communication equipment.
By pure circumstance, each was being pursued by Bosnian rebels intent on driving foreign powers from the area to be able to ethnically cleanse Muslims at their leisure. By even more extraordinary circumstance, each man had chosen the same wooded crest of a small hill as a likely place to make a stand.
Each was delighted to discover the other and that their defense had just increased by one hundred percent.
“Jason Peters, Delta Force,” were the first words Jason had spoken.
“Adrian Graham, SAS.”
They glanced at each other with the admiration elite forces share for one another.
“Say, mon, how many of yon blokes’re after your scalp?” Adrian had asked, looking over Jason’s shoulder.
“No more than ten or so,” Jason had said calmly. “And you?”
” ‘Bout the same,” Adrian had said. “We’d best not let them see we’ve joined up until they’re in range.”
Jason peered down the slope, waiting for the first of his pursuers to show himself. “And why’s that?”
“If they know there’re two of us, the sodding bastards’ll run.”
The timely arrival of a low-strafing, rocket-bearing F-16 fighter actually scattered the attackers, but neither Jason nor Adrian would ever admit that the plane’s arrival was more than an intrusion by air forces with not enough else to do.
After the conflict they had kept in touch, spending boozy, ill-remembered evenings in places most people had never heard of, until Adrian’s retirement a few years ago.
Like most Highland Scots, Adrian was intensely proud of his heritage and equally eager to leave its desolate landsca
pe and dreary weather.
In the seventeenth century, Cromwell had had one of Adrian’s ancestors hanged by the neck-but not until dead-then castrated and drawn and quartered. Although presumably no longer of interest to the victim, his component parts had then been buried at various unmarked crossroads. Years later, such remains as could be found had been entombed in a grand sepulchre in St. Giles in Edinburgh. It was a fact of which Adrian was extremely vain, but no more so than that his bloodline had three centuries earlier stood with Robert the Bruce at Bannockburn, with somewhat happier results. Even family pride, though, could not overcome the misery of the nine-month Scottish winter.
Like so many British, he and his wife had sought warmer climates. Unlike most English expats, he had not chosen the southwest of France, Tuscany, or Spain. His hobby of archeology had drawn him to the stone structures of the early Bronze Age that dotted the hills of the island of Sardinia. Through either beneficence or indifference, amateur exploration was not discouraged, and the cost of living was some of the lowest in western Europe, and life expectancy the highest.
Adrian and his wife had purchased a small farm in the rocky mountains that formed the spine of the island near the tiny village of Silanus.
Adrian held the door of the Volvo open. “You’ve no luggage?” “We didn’t have time to pack,” Jason said. “Figured we could pick up what we needed when we got here.”
Adrian helped Maria into the front passenger seat, motioning Jason into the back. “Aye, well, there’s no Fortnum and Mason or Harrods in Silanus. Clare, m’ wife, will have a spare frock or two. An’ you, Jason-I think I can put something on yer back till you find suitable clothing.”
“I don’t look good in kilts,” Jason said.
Adrian was turning the key, the Volvo’s starter grinding. “An’ I’m not insultin’ th’ Graham clan tartan by givin’ ye th’ loan of any.”
The starter motor had quit whirring and simply clicked its solenoid.
“Damn piece of Swedish junk! Doesn’t like the Guinea climate.” Adrian got out and withdrew a cudgel from under the seat. “Just raise the bonnet and give ‘er a tap.”