A Long Time Until Now

by Michael Z. Williamson

  “Caswell.”

  “If he can get her, yes. He’ll try to buy her, steal her, trade or cheat for her. That she’s military makes it even more important that he degrade her from being like a man.”

  Ortiz said, “She is the wrong woman to play that with.”

  “Right. She’ll wind up dead, after being brutally raped, possibly gang raped, and tortured. Then he’ll go for Alexander.”

  “You think it’s that bad?” Dan asked. Spencer sounded deadly serious, but he was always high strung.

  “They can’t think of women as soldiers. He’s assuming we’re taking turns with them as whores. He’ll first show up offering to borrow her for money. Then he’ll plan to make the lending permanent.”

  “Is there a diplomatic way around it?”

  “Either enough salt, hides, iron ore or whatever else, or fear that we’ll kill him. Not his men; him.” Spencer pointed for emphasis.

  Dan nodded. “Yeah. Well, I’m glad they fear that.”

  “For now, one of them does.”

  “Are we sleeping at all?”

  “Sure, but whoever is on watch is upright and walking around inside here. Not outside. You saw how they covered us with a half dozen goons.”

  Ortiz said, “I doubt I’d die fast enough to avoid screaming, but I’d rather not die.”

  “Exactly.”

  Dan asked, “No bath, then?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  He’d known that. Dammit, it would have been great.

  The legionnaire returned, and indicated they should follow him back to the leader’s cabin.

  “Weapons off safe, no one sit with a back to a door or window, or any of them.”

  “Hooah.”

  It was dinner. The pilus prior bade them sit. He wasn’t smiling, but didn’t seem put upon. It was just standard manners for visiting dignitaries.

  There were hewn benches around a plank table, and one chair built of square rods for the pilus prior.

  On the table was bread with oil. It wasn’t quite bread. It was probably rice cakes, but it was baked and seasoned.

  “Sedite,” their host said, and pointed at the benches.

  There wasn’t quite enough room for the three of them at the back, and the two Romans had the end seats.

  “Ah, Oglesby, stand and act like a . . . helper, please. It keeps you facing and looks cool.”

  “Hooah. Do I get to eat?”

  “Yes. Ramon will pass you stuff.”

  The pleasantries weren’t really, but the food was good. Two women wearing very little brought it in, though it had been cooked by a Roman. Dinner was roast, salted boar. There were roasted tubers with some kind of oil and mint sauce, and some salad greens, again with oil and vinegar with salt and herbs.

  It was mostly pre-cut, but they each took out their pocket knives to eat with.

  The Roman noticed that with fascination. Gerber and Benchmade were obviously beyond his understanding, but he recognized the technical advance.

  He wanted knives. Whatever he’d wanted before, he wanted knives. “Cultella,” he called them.

  Spencer agreed it was possible, if the Roman were to come to their camp and petition the tribune, there might be a couple of spares.

  Did the future Romans know why the Gods had chosen everyone for this?

  No. The Gods did their own thing. Future Romans knew more about the world, and the Christian and Jewish gods were popular, too, but no one knew why the Gods did what they did. Sacrifices didn’t seem to have any effect.

  Sour wine, thick with sediment, was used to toast the Gods, and accept their decisions. Perhaps it was Pan or Bacchus having a laugh, or Zeus demanding excellence.

  Dan managed to stay fed, though his right hand was even stickier and greasier than usual after it all. He held his wine cup, carved from wood, and put in a few words here and there as Spencer suggested.

  The Roman wanted to trade for a rifle.

  No. The banduka were valuable personal property, like a man’s sword. No man would go without one. The spares were needed for upkeep. There were bigger guns, but those were used like catapults, only with ranges up to three miles. That brought the man up short. Three miles? Yes.

  They couldn’t spare a woman’s weapon?

  No, the future women were as soldierly as men, so great was future Rome. Women not only owned property, but voted and served as officers and governors. The redhead was an experienced leader, aquilifer, and trained in medical herbs and wrestling. Her weapon was as much hers as any man’s.

  If Oglesby gauged expressions right, that was probably the wrong thing to say.

  “Spencer, I think you made her sound even hotter to him.”

  “Yeah. Crap.”

  He hadn’t even seen her, only had his subordinate’s reports. Spencer had been right about the value of women. Hell, he’d like one himself, or at least a bit more privacy with his porn.

  Their language skills improved a bit, but it was communication, not conversation. As it got dark, Martius bid them goodnight and had them escorted back to their bunkhouse.

  “Well, that wasn’t terrible,” Dan offered.

  Spencer said, “No, but we’re in a position where we either have to play our hand, or knuckle under. We can’t not show them technology, or they won’t respect us. That means we have to overawe them something fierce.”

  “Shooting demo tomorrow?”

  “Probably. Knives won’t impress them, even if ours are a lot better. And did you see their forge?”

  “Is that what that was?”

  “Yeah. Looks like they use it for repairs for now. When they find ore, they’ll make iron. I wonder if we can make a wheeled cart so we can haul stuff back and forth.”

  “That would help.”

  “Iron ore and charcoal. Unless they find actual coal.”

  “Can you forge with charcoal? I didn’t think it was hot enough.”

  “Sure. It’s cleaner, but generates more ash. Not quite as hot, but more bellows help. It worked for the Vikings and Japs.”

  “Well, you want one of us awake at all times. Should we use a light?”

  “No. Dark, and keep an ear out.”

  “Okay. I’ll go first.” Because that is going to suck, standing for three hours in the dark, doing nothing. “What about phone?”

  “Just keep it dim, and no audio.”

  “Hooah.” Yeah, he could watch something or read a bit.

  They all went and pissed together, which wasn’t an issue anymore, and felt safer than going alone. Then he pulled on another shirt under his gore-tex, because it was chilly already, and it was going to be a long night.

  Spencer said, “One more thing. In case they try anything, no sleeping bags. Use a coat on top, and sleep on the cot, boots on.”

  A very long night.

  “Spencer.”

  He snapped awake to the whisper, to see Oglesby holding a finger to his lips. He had his phone out for faint illumination.

  With his fingers, Oglesby indicated walking feet and pointed around the wall.

  Spencer nodded, flipped on his NV reticle, and took a glance.

  Through cracks in the walls he could see armed men outside, more than just a couple of guards. Crap. He’d hoped they’d be smarter than that.

  He tapped Ortiz and they repeated the pantomime.

  He waved them in close enough to be kinky and whispered in their ears.

  “Optics on. If they open the door with raised weapons, I’ll shoot them. You two fire a few rounds back and sides. If they start poking in through the walls, shout and shoot.”

  They both nodded back and gripped hands.

  This was it. The Romans wanted a fight. He’d hoped the demonstration had been enough. Evidently, they thought they had enough bodies . . . and they might.

  “Keep shooting until they retreat or surrender.”

  Oglesby whispered back, “Are we going to have to kill them all?”

  Given what he knew of Roman d
iscipline, it was possible.

  “Dunno. Do it.”

  The legionaries seemed to respect guns enough to not risk a dynamic entry. The door inched open bit by agonizing bit. The leather hinges had been well-greased, and the reason was now apparent.

  He realized it was pretty damned cold. His hands were near numb, as were his toes inside his boots. His guts were not liking the Roman food.

  The Romans were entering a dark room, and the soldiers had night vision. Spencer could very readily see the lead man backlit by faint illumination from the fire in the courtyard. He wore no armor, but did have his sword drawn and held in close. He had a day’s worth of beard and close cut hair. He was boyish, about twenty perhaps. Two others stood right behind him, very visible in the glow. There was mist out there, too.

  Then the leader stepped over the threshold and raised his sword. Spencer took that as the initiation of hostilities.

  At this range, the 5.56mm round blew through the first two Romans. The muzzle flash momentarily lit the expression of shock and pain on the man’s face, and the barking report ruined everyone’s hearing. He heard several more shots behind him, though the flashes were somewhat muted.

  He fired twice more to make sure, the second a head shot, then nailed the two behind the leader before they could do more than flinch.

  He shouted, “Charge, Oglesby go left!” and headed for the door. He felt them stack behind him, then he was through spiderwebs, spinning right and shooting, shooting, shooting. Ortiz covered the exposed area forward, they had the building as hard cover, and Oglesby was behind him, shooting.

  The Romans fell back, fast. At least a dozen were down. Modern rifles made gaping holes and impressively sharp bangs.

  “Back inside!” he shouted, and switched to burst. He snapped the trigger toward the guys with the javelins cocked. Two went down. He figured he was at about half a magazine. Good for now.

  “Covering!” Ortiz shouted.

  He backed in himself, jumping to the side and feeling something smash into him.

  A javelin had hit his boot, but hadn’t penetrated, with the combination of range and his foot being a flexible target.

  Oglesby said, “What now? Are they going to set it on fire?”

  “Yeah, I expect so. Where the fuck is that commander?”

  “I think that’s him pointing and waving.” He pointed out the open door. They still had shadows as cover, and shock and awe. The Romans shouted, screamed, yelled. Several sounded badly wounded.

  “Alright, I have him.” If that asshole went away, the rest might be a bit more reasonable. He rolled into prone supported in the moldy straw with his feet at the back of the hut, took careful aim, ignored the arms and head for center of mass, and squeezed.

  The shot took the Roman right in the heart, through his armor. It splashed bright blood in the image intensifier. Someone behind him took some of the bullet in the shoulder. The primus priapus dropped, clutched at himself, and died.

  There was a pause and confusion.

  Trying to still his heart and breathing, he called loudly and clearly, “Parlay. Negotiare. Intercesse. Communicado.” He hoped one of those was close to the Latin.

  There was some huddling, and then the other centurion, the optio? came forward slowly. He stopped about twenty feet from the hut. He looked terrified, his knees shaking.

  “Loce.” Speak.

  He thought for words and said, “Ego desidera egress emigro sine violenta.”

  “Migre.”

  “Castrum non vexi.”

  The man nodded assent.

  “Vale.” Then he muttered, “And adios, motherfucker.” Louder he said, “Okay, men, fingers on triggers, walk out proudly. If you hear anything that sounds like an attack, be proactive. Hand me my ruck.”

  He took it one arm at a time, keeping his weapon handy. The Romans did nothing aggressive as they left. He figured a couple of the wounded might survive. Or they might take several days to die from lung or gut shots. He felt sympathy for the poor bastards, but he wasn’t about to stick around and try to help. The Romans had dealt the hand, they got to pay the house.

  They couldn’t hear much after the firefight. Using their optics, they walked out the open camp gate, past sentries who stood to sharp attention and made no eye contact. They scanned around themselves as they went. The Romans shied back from the cyclopean figures, and he expected they’d figure out those things were for night use.

  “This is going to be a sucky walk back,” he said. It was cloudy. That meant it was blacker than the inside of a hole. It was chilly.

  They weren’t any closer to diplomatic ties with their neighbors.

  And they were probably down another fifty rounds of irreplaceable ammo.

  It had been lonely and creepy to march out here. Marching back at night had him panting, his pulse hammering, dumping more adrenaline than in the firefight. But they couldn’t stop near the Romans, and they had no way to shelter, really. It was a few kilometers, but that seemed so much farther in the thick darkness.

  The woods were terrifying. He hesitated going in, but knew they had to. Once in, he didn’t want to stop. There was one section where the birds rioted overhead, chirping, singing, making a racket, and he dropped down hugging himself, dammit.

  There were few insect sounds, but occasional growls and snorts. Their passage disturbed animals that skittered through the brush. Branches cracked as they shifted.

  “Gotta piss,” he said. “Bad. Wish we could use light.” NVG made things eerier and flat.

  “We have to go past their other village,” Ortiz said.

  “Yeah, but I don’t think they can send a message before we get there.”

  He drained into the trees, as did the others in turn, steam rising from the splashes. They took a couple of minutes to reorganize their gear and adjust straps. He hated having his back to the woods, but didn’t want to face it, either, and whichever way he turned he did both. He took point because he had to, and because he felt things behind them. Not Romans. Imaginary things. He knew it was stupid, and he knew he was freaking out, and he knew there were wolves and such.

  Progress was slow, and he was very glad he’d mandated not using the sleeping bags. They’d have had to abandon them to be prizes to some Roman.

  In the monochrome, he sought the game paths, actually saw deer and elk sleeping and stirring as they hiked past, jumped as a rabbit darted across in front of him. The shadows were a stirred, mixed mess of dark, and using the IR illuminator on his light didn’t help much. That showed one clear area with stark shadows, and blacked everything else out in contrast. Fifteen minutes later, he had to piss again before he started dribbling in fear.

  He was glad to see flashes of false dawn to the east, the trees slowly turning gray and ghostlike through fog, which were just as horroresque, but at least hinted at daylight.

  He was still a city boy, even if that city was ten people in a couple of tents.

  They passed the former Urushu village well after sunrise, circling uphill and around past the animal pens. They waved at a couple of distant parties, and kept humping.

  He slowed once they were clear of the village, and paused for a moment, behind an outcropping with scrub.

  “Ortiz, can you grab some of the jerky out of my ruck? Left pocket.”

  “Got it.”

  It was bland jerky, unseasoned except for salt and mustard, but it was meat and it gave him something to chew on rather than his lip. Then they moved on. There was clear sign of some predator in the brush, wolf or possibly hyena. They’d never seen a hyena here, and he wasn’t sure if they had been, but there’d been some ugly looking canines that might be.

  About midmorning they sighted home, its wooden walls a comfort.

  Sean Elliott was not happy. A firefight with the Romans was not going to help. He agreed with Spencer it was likely unavoidable.

  Regardless of what philosophers thought about the utopian lives of primitive people, they were so far craven,
superstitious, short-sighted and dull. They were very clever at tools and adaptation. They had little grasp of social interaction.

  The Paleo people had only immediate needs and enough resources to meet them. The Neolithics understood property and wanted control of it, which he understood. It would be nice to get along with them, but they just hadn’t been interested, and now the Romans had them, too. And the Romans wanted to be in charge. The East Indians were too few to matter, though would have made better allies. Except they’d likely be able to figure out how a rifle worked if they got hold of one.

  If they could all just be rational and cooperate, they’d do a lot better. But everyone wanted to be in charge.

  “So it’s us and the Urushu village against the rest of them?” he asked Spencer. The two sat in the cab of Number Nine for privacy. It felt odd to sit in a vehicle seat after all these months.

  Alexander could hear them, from the back, but she’d proven very discreet.

  Spencer said, “Yes, sir. About a hundred Romans, about half that many Neolithic levees with spears and presumably Roman discipline, and a few Urushu women they snagged as comfort women and household servants for the leaders.”

  The man spoke in a rush, and sipped bark tea fast, followed by devouring some soup. He still shook. He placed his canteen cup and wooden bowl down in the footwell.

  Sean added, “Plus the Indians.”

  “Yes, sir, but they don’t seem to have much say in the matter. The Romans had their muskets. We only saw them at a distance, as here.”

  “You think they want to do the same with us.”

  “I’m pretty sure that’s exactly what they want, sir. Control of the weapons and exotic pussy. Pardon me, Alexander.”

  From the back, she said, “I understood just fine. You know why I always have a knife.”

  Sean said, “Yeah, if I had a company, or even a solid platoon, they’d know the score. As it is, they aren’t scared enough.” He kept running into shortage of manpower.

  “The new leader is. The pilus prior apparently didn’t think our rifles were that much different from the muskets, and had no idea we could see in the dark. He was clumsy.”