A Long Time Until Now

by Michael Z. Williamson

  “Where is the Roman camp?”

  “They took over another Urushu village. It’s farther downstream.”

  “Okay. I guess we need to go there.” He frowned. “I hope there aren’t too many of them.”

  Ramon shifted.

  “Next problem,” he said. “I gotta piss.”

  “Yeah, we’ll cover you. Leave your weapon here. Looks like they’re using that tree for urine.”

  “Hooah.”

  He felt very exposed, unarmed without backup, walking across the dusky, drizzly compound and approaching the tree. A couple of people’s eyes followed him, but no one tried to hinder him. He took care of business, buttoned up and headed back, and what were they going to do in the morning when they needed to dump?

  The dogs were surprisingly well trained, and didn’t bark at him, now that he was inside the perimeter. Smart dogs. Very handsome. He wondered if they could trade for a couple of those. They’d help with hunting and might make good herders.

  After dinner, the centurion came back over with the serving girl. She made introduction, then bowed out. They stepped outside, nodded all around, and managed through some pidgin Latin/Spanish/English.

  The conversation went approximately:

  “What brings you here?”

  “Exploring the area to learn where other groups are.”

  “For conquest?”

  Spencer said, “Tell him ‘No, just trade. Our tools are sufficient we don’t need to conquer.’ Make it sound boring and uninteresting.”

  “The optio said your banduka are even better than the Indians’?”

  “They are. We are from about five centuries past them, and our alchemy and metalwork are much more advanced.”

  “What do you offer to trade?”

  Spencer said, “Tell them we can help improve their iron and medicine, as well as making much stronger wine.”

  The Roman grinned. “Stronger wine will be what the pilus prior is interested in.”

  “Noted. Though we can make much stronger iron.”

  “We have enough to rule these barbarians.” He waved dismissively. “It’s Roman iron that does that.” Ramon added, “Sergeant, I think he means their mettle and discipline in that context.”

  Oglesby said, “Yeah, I think so, too.”

  “Tell him I believe him. Our discipline is a direct line from his Rome’s.”

  He came back with, “You don’t like the woman?”

  “She’s fine, but that’s not what we’re here for. We do appreciate your hospitality, and she was very agreeable in spirit.”

  “Good, then. She was the most . . . pliable. Some of the others took persuading.” Ramon translated that back and added, “I think that’s what he said.”

  Spencer said, “I hope he drops this thread soon. God, I need a coffee and a beer to calm me down. Or some of that native pot.”

  Ramon asked, “Podemos imponer por un poco de vino? y habra yerba para fumar?” He pantomimed what he meant.

  The centurion seemed to grasp it. “Heh. Sure, I’ll send some over. Make sure the guard sees you if you need to piss in the middle of the night.”

  “Will do. Thanks for your hospitality.”

  “We’ll be watching you, too.”

  “Of course.”

  After the man left, Ortiz sighed, stretched, and realized how tense he was.

  “Well, I don’t think he’s a threat, but I do expect he’s going to report back.”

  “Or ahead,” Spencer said. “He may have a message en route now.”

  The girl brought a skin of wine. It was raw and rough, but drinkable. She had a bundle of leaves that were whatever hemp analog they’d had before.

  “I’m skipping the weed,” Spencer said. “I need to keep my wits.”

  “Hooah.”

  Oglesby looked at it longingly. “Goddamn, I want a smoke. Can we save it?”

  “For now, yes.”

  Ramon took first watch, and slept well enough after, though the damp persisted. His sleeping bag clung and twisted, and he woke several times. It was dead black, creepy, and he expected incoming at any moment. Oglesby stood near the door during his watch. He thought to tell him to stand back a bit, but drifted right back to sleep.

  Spencer had the early call, and stood shifting on his feet, against the back wall, a large shadow, moving little.

  The Roman guards made a regular circle inside the fence. He could hear them walk past every few minutes. They were left alone. Whether from orders or practicality, the centurion wasn’t interested in fighting. He offered basic hospitality to fellow travelers, and left it like that.

  In the morning, the girl brought some ground nuts cooked in fat. It was a bit greasy, but a little took care of hunger.

  It was damp outside, but misty, not raining. It would burn off and be clear.

  Spencer said, “Let’s move. I want to get out of here before they start running around. We go through the forest?”

  “Yeah, I remember hunting here last year, with the Urushu.”

  Oglesby said, “They said it was about six miles through the woods, onto a flat plain.”

  They walked out the marked gate, escorted by the centurion and several legionnaires, who then turned and went back in.

  The woods were lush and damp, the soil humus over clay. They made decent time along what was obviously a well-used path.

  Spencer said, “I’m surprised the Romans haven’t started building a road yet. Expect they’ll do so. They’ll probably draft the Neos and Urushu as ‘auxiliaries’ for it.”

  Ramon asked, “How do the Neolithics seem to be doing?”

  “Looks like the Romans have them completely under control. Either they killed a bunch, or split them up and took some to their place. Either’s possible. By breaking the tribute nations into small groups, they’ll be easier to control. Very Roman.”

  Oglesby said, “Didn’t the Soviets do something similar?”

  “Yes.”

  Dan Oglesby felt a bit jealous of Ortiz. Spanish was obviously useful in trying to reverse engineer Latin, and Ortiz had done so at least as easily as he’d figured out the Urushu limited vocabulary. The phrase book he’d developed would do for most mundane matters.

  So now he was along basically as muscle. Ortiz was the translator, Spencer knew the culture. He was backup.

  The woods were dank and creepy. There weren’t nearly as many animal sounds as in America; they were complete strangers here, and there were animal and human threats. He jumped as some snuffling boar moved ahead of them, disturbed into trotting farther west. Vines and long ivy hung from the trees. Moss covered the ground and some of the bark. There were big chunks of tree fungus on down logs. Some paths were worn by animals or people, and there were marks to indicate it here and there. He was sure he missed most.

  A bird rose up in front of them and he flailed for a second.

  “How far west does this go?” he asked. “The river, I mean.”

  Spencer said, “Yeah, it’d be fascinating to take a raft down. Eventually, this hits the Aral Sea, or what will be the Aral Sea. At this time, it probably fills most of the Depression, and may even join the Caspian.”

  “How far?”

  “Five hundred miles or so. But there’s no advantage to being there. It probably isn’t even a salt lake yet.”

  “Things changed that fast?”

  “Yes. Seas rose a hundred and twenty meters. Doggerland, where the Neoliths are from, becomes the North Sea. The Baltic turns from lake to inundated estuary to sea. The inland lakes here dry up, refill, dry again several times. Agriculture develops. The megafauna finish dying off.”

  “Heh. Global warming.”

  “Right. But at some point ahead of us, it suddenly gets cold again for a couple of thousand years. Very cold.”

  “That won’t affect us, though, right?” Ortiz asked.

  Spencer shoved a bough aside and said, “I dunno. Depends on what year this is, and how much effect there is here. But
when it happens, it happens within a couple of generations.”

  “Uh?” Spencer sounded knowledgeable but . . .

  “Yeah. Climate change can be fast.”

  He’d figured they’d settle in to what they have and eventually take native wives and build a village. That it might suddenly all freeze . . .

  “Ice Age type freeze?”

  “The Younger Dryas is pretty close to a mini ice age, yes.”

  “Crap.”

  “It’s probably not for a couple of thousand years. But we could be off.”

  Ortiz asked, “So we need more firewood?”

  “Hah. And you thought I was nuts. Yeah, given smaller shelters for us each, too, we’ll need more. Unless we want to all hooch together over the winter again.”

  Ortiz said, “I don’t want to, but we may have to.”

  He said, “Hey, if I get to watch the chicks rub off again,” then wished he hadn’t.

  “Oh?” Spencer asked, too casually.

  “Well, I don’t know. I think Caswell was. I made a point to not watch, and I guess it might be wishful thinking.”

  “Yeah, we all wish that, but it ain’t gonna happen, and if it does, do not ever mention it to her. Or anyone. Even us.”

  “Right. She wouldn’t see the humor.”

  “No, she would not.”

  Ortiz said, “Doc’s pretty jealous that you got blown. He’s learned to like the Urushu chicks.”

  This was getting uncomfortably personal.

  “Look, I’m sorry. Can we change subjects?”

  “Good idea,” Spencer said. “We’re running out of forest ahead.”

  “Romans?” he asked.

  “Not yet, but . . . um, yes. I see someone way ahead. Ramon?”

  Ortiz shouted, and something moved. It was a Roman in armor. He wore the lamellar stuff, not chain or leather. It shone.

  The woods tapered off, and they were in rolling ground with a high meadow ahead. The sun was high, and warm. The temperature rose ten degrees as they came out from shadow. The brush was shoulder high, then waist high, then knee high.

  There was definitely construction ahead.

  “Goddamn,” he muttered.

  Spencer said, “Yeah, welcome to what the legions can do with grunt labor.”

  The Romans had a palisade at least as good as theirs. It wasn’t quite as tall, but it was pointed and sturdy. It ringed the camp and led away from a gate, to channel any approach.

  “Well, ain’t this just the shit?”

  Ortiz said, “I’ve read about them, but this is impressive.”

  The ditch and rampart wasn’t as deep as their own. The palisade was square-chopped pillars with inset sections lashed together, pointed at each end. One end stuck in the ground, the other straight up. In front of it all were three-spike lashings that looked like jacks. There was no way to charge the position.

  One of the sentries—there were three—walked down toward them, hand held palm out.

  Ortiz spoke in Spanish, clearly, using what sounded like simple, uncased words. Dan didn’t speak Spanish, but knew enough Romance orthography to make out a summary. He was saying they were a mission from their tribune, the future Romans the legionnaire had no doubt heard of. They were making a courtesy visit to establish communication with their counterparts and discuss future trade and work.

  One of the other sentries called back to the gate. Another ran out to replace him; he ran inside, armor clattering, and spoke to someone in a small log cabin. Someone shouted an order, and two others pulled aside the barricades at the gate. The runner returned, spoke to his superior, then waved them forward.

  Spencer carefully spoke, “Try to use mostly German based words and limit which of theirs we say.”

  “Hooah.”

  “I don’t trust them not to pick things up fast.”

  “Roger that, Sergeant.”

  Once inside, an obvious firing squad of six guys with javelins kept them in view. They stood to one side as the Americans approached the leader, who was accompanied by the centurion who’d visited them the week before.

  Ortiz did most of the talking, Spencer did some, too.

  “Buona Dia. Reunion? Embajador?”

  “Dignum,” the Roman said, making clear eye contact.

  “Sic, Dignum. Para Tribunus Sean Elliott, Roma futura duo millennia.”

  “Tibi nomen est?”

  “Repetus?”

  “Nomen?” The man’s expression indicated he thought Martin was an idiot.

  “Ah, name. Centurio Martin Spencer. Ah, Tesserari Daniel Oglesby et Ramon Ortiz,” he indicated them. “I made you corporals. I think that’s the closest. I’m a sergeant major.”

  “You may as well be, here.”

  The Roman nodded, and replied, “Et ego recipiam vos.”

  Spencer said, “Repetus, petitius?”

  The Roman rolled his eyes. “Ego accept.”

  “Ah, gratias. Our lingua evolva hence . . . mutatay?”

  “Mutata,” Ortiz provided.

  “Sic.”

  The Roman indicated himself. “Pilus Prior Gnaius Martius Negro.”

  Yes, the man had jet black hair and dark skin. That would fit. If his cognomen was personal or a family reference.

  Gnaius consulted with the centurion and two others nearby.

  Spencer said, “Look around carefully. See their troops.”

  Oglesby had been. There were about a hundred of them, doing construction, guard duty and regular camp chores. They were getting things done a lot faster with ten times as many people. He felt jealous.

  A small patrol returned with Urushu hunters. That made sense. The Romans escorted them in and out and let them do the work, and in exchange gave them some food and shelter. Though they likely weren’t asked, just told.

  One of the troops turned and gestured to the trio. They followed.

  The Roman led them farther into camp to a hut with a thatched roof, a bit larger than the night before. It had lashed cots with leather platforms, very reminiscent of modern army cots. He then pointed to other facilities.

  There were obvious urinals set into the western wall, and what appeared to be outhouses with buckets to dump—“Latrinum.” There were several cooking fires and a smoke house. The NCOs had semi-private cabins, the men had some tents and a long, thatched cabin. Another was under construction.

  Oglesby stopped in his steps when the Roman pointed. “Balnea.”

  “Bath house,” Spencer said. “Of course the Romans have a fucking bath house.”

  Fires indicated hot water, and it appeared they had a tub of some kind inside.

  “Oh, hell, yes, if they’ll let us,” he said. “Hell, this is better than some Marine Corps COBs.”

  “We’ll get there,” Spencer assured him.

  The legionnaire left them with a nod and a comment that probably meant, “I’ll be over here.” He pointed at the barracks cabin as he did so.

  They set their rucks down and looked about.

  “Keep your weapons handy, and we stay together,” Spencer said. “I’m not opposed to blinding someone with a light if I have to. I’d prefer not to shoot, but they know what guns can do. Now, where are those Indians?”

  “Up there,” Ortiz said. “They seem to be working at technical tasks. Carpentry.”

  Their outfits were getting worn and replaced with leather, or perhaps those were protective chaps. He’d love to talk to them, if it could be arranged. There were about twenty of them here, but five times as many Romans.

  “Yeah, I see them. I don’t see their weapons. That means the Romans are running the show.”

  “So they’re high status draftees.”

  “Right. Not slaves, but not free. Still, it means they have community.”

  Oglesby said, “It is a bit tempting.”

  “Yeah, on the surface,” Spencer said. “Dude, you have no idea what Roman discipline is like. Take the worst war stories of Vietnam-era boot camp, add in occasional outright to
rture like the worst of the Foreign Legion, and expedient executions as needed. If we join here, we’ll do whatever they say, all day, every day. And the chicks will be the commander’s sex slaves under penalty of flogging into submission. If you try to argue on their behalf, they’ll split your tongue or possibly crucify you.”

  “I heard they were pretty rough.”

  “Most movies exaggerate violence and brutality. I’ve never seen anything about the Romans that did it enough justice. They’re fucking mean. Though they were still better than most of their contemporaries.”

  “So we’re keeping them at a distance?”

  “Yeah, I’m scoping out their capabilities. There will be no allegiance. There may be alliance. We hope for at least mutual nonaggression. But we’re not teaming up. They have numbers.”

  Ortiz said, “I don’t think those women want to be here.”

  “Maybe. It’s entirely possible they’re here for the baths and glitter.”

  “Or those were the bait and they’re not happy now.” It was a sophisticated camp.

  Spencer said, “Well, buying wives and occasional rape on campaign was very Roman. I don’t think we can do anything about it.”

  “Yeah. I agree with you, though. They’re in charge.”

  “Rome doesn’t treat. Rome conquers. It’s only that we have linear ties, some language, and good knowledge that we can make them buy us as their betters, for now. You realize there’s no officers here?”

  “Not that guy back there?” he asked.

  “Pilus Prior is some sort of senior centurion. He’s a regimental sergeant major. They didn’t really have officers who weren’t nobility. Us telling him Elliott is a tribune probably saved us. That, and they don’t really need ten more bodies. Since we have better weapons, they’ll leave us alone, for a while. But at some point I expect them to show up and demand tribute. They might want to tax us and have us put the Urushu to work. They won’t care how, as long as we deliver.”

  “What, food?” There wasn’t much else they might have. He was certain Elliott wouldn’t cough up any materials for the Romans.

  “Salt, leather, labor, most likely. And this is important: There aren’t enough women here, and ours are in good shape. That Pilus Priapus has a slave girl, I guarantee. He’s going to want the hottest slave girl around.”