The Last Roman: Book One: Exile

by B. K. Greenwood

  Marcus turned his head toward the screen to find an image of himself speaking.

  "I know this is difficult, but you need to sit down."

  Marcus looked from the video back to Sam and let her go. She gasped for air and fell back onto the couch, rubbing her throat. Marcus stood staring at the video as it worked through a series of explanations and descriptions. It talked about events from the past and people Marcus knew. She watched as the confusion faded from his face, and a stark realization set in.

  After three or four minutes, he looked away from the TV. "You can turn it off."

  She stopped the recording. "Can I get you anything?"

  "Water?"

  "Sure." She hopped off the couch and moved to the kitchen. Grabbing a glass from the cupboard, she filled it with water from the fridge and walking back, looked down at the opening on the floor. The soil was pushed aside, leaving a significant divot on the surface. She handed the glass to him, and only then realized he was naked.

  She walked to the bathroom and grabbed him a towel. He had finished the water and exchanged the empty glass for the towel.

  "How did you…" her voice trailed off.

  "I wasn't very deep. Sometimes, I get lucky." He stood, the towel wrapped around his waist. She rubbed her throat again. "I'm so sorry. Are you okay?"

  "No, no. I mean, yeah, I'm fine. It was my fault. I should have stayed awake and started the video earlier. Don't worry about it."

  His eyes told her he was worried about it. "I'm gonna take a shower. Can you find us something to eat? Should be a few cans in there."

  "Sure."

  He buttoned up his shirt as he exited the bathroom, the aroma of canned chili filling the small room. He ran one hand back through his still wet hair and sat at the small table. Sam brought over two bowls and sat down across from him.

  "It was in French; I hope it isn't expired." She smelled the chili, then took a small bite from the tip of the spoon.

  "Should be fine." Marcus pushed caution aside and shoveled a full spoonful into his mouth.

  "What happened?" she asked between bites.

  "Shit went south after I headed downtown. Thomas had a big crew, bigger than I expected." He finished his mouthful. "Not having a gun was super inconvenient."

  "The explosion?"

  "Yeah, that was me."

  "Why?"

  He stopped chewing for a moment, wiping his mouth with a napkin.

  "Do you know how hard it is to kill yourself instantly?" He didn't wait for a response. "I've tried a dozen times. I was horribly unsuccessful on three occasions. Once, I was skewered on a rock for hours, fucking crabs nibbling on me until the tide came in and I drowned."

  A look of horror had settled on her face.

  "So, an explosion seemed appropriate." He was about to take another bite when he stopped. "I made sure there were no civilians around."

  She nodded, her mouth still open.

  He reverted his focus to his chili. When finished, he gulped down the last of his water and then grabbed a nearby cigarette pack and lit one.

  "So, what's our status?"

  "I went straight to the safe house, then here. No contact with anyone."

  "Good." He stood and rinsed his bowl in the sink, cigarette dangling from his mouth. Then moved to his desk.

  "Why a winery? And isn't a bed-and-breakfast pretty high profile?"

  "Well, I thought a B&B would be less conspicuous. Kind of hiding in plain sight." He sat at the desk and brought the screen to life.

  "The manager…does he know you?" Sam brought her bowl to the sink and cleaned it.

  "No, it's been a while since I've been through the room upstairs. I visit under more unusual circumstances."

  Nodding, she wiped her hands and started across the room. Standing next to him at the computer, Sam rubbed her hands on her hips.

  "Can I ask a question?"

  "Absolutely." He took the last puff of his cigarette.

  "Why here?"

  "Yeah." He crushed the butt and pointed at the plot of dirt. "That's where I was killed for the first time. By a very large and very angry barbarian."

  "You probably deserved it."

  "Most definitely, though I didn't think so at the time."

  "Does anyone else know? Thomas?"

  "No. One immortal knew, a man named Nicodemus."

  "And where is he now?"

  "Dead, killed by the Nazis."

  "I'm sorry."

  "Me too. I miss him." He glanced at the open patch. "Your uncle was the only other person I trusted enough to bring here."

  "And now me?"

  "And now you."

  "What did you do before? Before anyone was here to help?"

  "I dug myself out…or suffocated trying."

  "Are you kidding me?"

  "No, but that only happened twice."

  "And the disorientation?"

  "It wasn't so bad. That's only been an issue the last few years."

  "Why is that?"

  He shrugged. "No fucking idea."

  "And who is Natalia?"

  Marcus flinched, the smile disappearing.

  "You said her name when you were…" her hand moved back to her throat.

  He swung back to the computer. "I'd rather not talk about her."

  His tone was cold and distant. She had gone a step too far and moved back to the couch and sat down.

  There was an unpleasant silence while Marcus typed on the keyboard. After a couple of minutes, he stood and moved over to a cabinet on the workbench. He opened the door and grabbed a bottle of scotch and two glasses. Marcus sat and put the glasses on the coffee table. He poured them both a drink, his quite a bit fuller than hers, then slid the glass toward her.

  "I'm sorry." He finished half the glass. "We agreed I would share everything."

  She took a sip but did not reply.

  "She was my wife. When I die, the same thing happens every time. It starts early in the morning; my wife is asleep next to me. I'm cold because she stole the blanket again." A wry smile crossed his lips as he faded into the memory. "I take a minute or two to realize what's happening. And then it's a mix of excitement and dread, mostly dread."

  He swirled the glass in his hand.

  "It's real, as real as anything could be. I feel, I smell, I can even taste. But I know it's not real because I know exactly what's going to happen. It's like I'm inside a movie, and I can't change anything. It moves from scene to scene. My wedding, my son being born, my daughter's first steps. Arguments with my father. The last time I saw my mother. It goes on for three days. Only they're not memories; I live them."

  Marcus finished his drink and poured himself another healthy dose. He took a long swig and said, "And it always ends the same…with the death of my wife."

  Sam took a drink, the scotch burning her lips and throat, but not enough to distract her from the sadness in his eyes.

  "Why do you think that happens?"

  "I don't know. Some kind of emotional connection? Is my life flashing before my eyes? You know, like the old saying? Maybe God is just a fucking bastard and wants to torture me." He drained his glass.

  "I'm sorry, you shouldn't have to go through that."

  "Well, it's better than the alternative. I have no desire to get caught and stuck in some cell for years on end. If given the option, you can't let that happen."

  "I won't."

  "Good." He tilted his head toward the computer. "Now, can you figure out why I can't get into any of my accounts?"

  "Sure," Sam moved to the desk and started working. After a few minutes, she figured it out.

  "Looks like everything is frozen. Your credit card and bank accounts, travel accounts."

  "Well, not everything. Just the stuff they know about."

  "They? Meaning Thomas?"

  "And Ramirez."

  She nodded, then she realized. "My uncle?"

  "He's safe. I contacted him after I left the coffee shop. I told him to disappear."<
br />
  "How did you know?"

  "Just a hunch."

  "Good. Are money or passports going to be a problem?"

  "I have everything we need here."

  "You know, I've been meaning to ask. But I didn't want to be nosy."

  "Now you decided not to be nosy?"

  "True. That's not my strong suit." She scrunched her face and asked, "Where did you get all your money?"

  He chuckled. "Over the years, I managed to collect a few things. I have a room, a vault, in the wall near the bathroom."

  "I didn't see anything."

  "That's the point," He said. "It's mostly gold. Doubloons, some bullion, ingots. You could say I had a pretty successful run in the early 1700s."

  "You were a pirate."

  "I prefer the term privateer."

  "You were so a pirate." She started laughing. "Tell me you had a monkey."

  "I did not have a monkey."

  "I bet you did." She nodded. "So gold, that it?"

  "Pretty much. I have some artifacts, but I rarely sell them. I had a lot of art, but most of that is gone. And I have some land, but that's a bit trickier to liquidate."

  "I figure that's how Thomas made his money?"

  "Among other things, yeah. He was big in shipping and trading."

  "So, are we gonna have to carry around a sack of gold coins?"

  "No," Marcus said. "I have cash."

  "Not as cool, but it works." She motioned to the many screens showing various camera angles from outside the winery. "Looks clear."

  He looked back at the monitors and shook his head. "I never go out through the room. If you haven't noticed, I'm paranoid."

  "So, how do we get out?"

  He grinned.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  What is human warfare but just this; an effort to make the laws of God and nature take sides with one party.

  —Henry David Thoreau

  October 732 A.D.

  Tours, France

  It was cold, the morning air sharp and clean. The heavy winds from the night before had faded to a soft breeze that tugged and pulled at the colorful banners. A dense fog retreated from the field, unwilling to stand between the two armies.

  The defenders formed a human wall across the top of the sloping valley. Each wing was anchored in the heavy forests that protected the flanks from encirclement. Some were mercenaries, drawn by the promise of plunder; many were farmers, plucked from the harvests. They were a mixture of Saxons, Franks, and Burgundians. Together, they stood for Christendom.

  At the far end of the valley were the Muslim invaders, a sea of yellow and orange eager to charge across the empty field. Each of the horsemen carried an eight-foot lance with a red ribbon attached below its shiny blade. Most of the army comprised light cavalry or Berbers. They wore chain-mail shirts, pointed helmets, and carried no shields. A select few were cataphracts: armored behemoths who could smash through an enemy formation.

  "Will they attack," Thomas looked over at Marcus, "or just nibble for another day?"

  Both men were sitting atop giant warhorses, overlooking the field from a shallow knoll. The rest of the court gathered around Charles Martel, Mayor of the Palace and General of the Franks.

  "They will attack."

  Thomas started to ask why, but a litany of trumpets and drums punctuated the air and signaled the Muslim army's advance. Marcus glanced over at Thomas and winked. Charles prodded his mighty warhorse through a gap in the formation and then turned to face his army.

  "Stand firm, Brothers of Christ! God is looking down upon us, and He shall not forget your bravery. Let us give these bastards a taste of cold, Frankish steel, and then send the heathen scoundrels back across the mountains from which they came!"

  A loud cheer rose from the defenders as each man raised his weapon high above his head. They pounded their weapons against their shields, trying to erase the fear that would fill any man's soul when faced with a thousand tons of horse and steel.

  The wall of men looked impressive, but it was not. Charles had too many conscripts, and he knew it. The conscripts wore leather armor, if they had armor at all. Most carried spears and small wooden shields; a few had rusty swords. Alone, they would never withstand a single charge. So, it forced Charles to mix them in with the heavily armed mercenaries, hoping the veterans' discipline would rub off on the peasants. It was a bold move that could easily backfire. Failure spreads like wildfire, and if the peasants abandoned the line, they could take the mercenaries with them. But it was a gamble Charles had to make. Outnumbered, there was no way he could hold the flanks unless he used the conscripts. Fear and faith would have to rule the day.

  The Muslims trotted forward, lances rising and falling with the rhythm of their mounts. The pasture disappeared, consumed by the approaching horde. Charles watched the advance from the knoll, his jaw clenched. When they reached the middle of the valley, Charles nodded to one of his generals, and moments later, the first volley of arrows rained down upon the riders. Men and horses fell beneath the downpour, but it did not slow their advance.

  Marcus held his breath as the infidels lowered their lances and crashed into the phalanx awaiting them. The impact rippled across the valley as the line buckled but did not break. The screams of horse and man filled the air as the two armies hacked each other to pieces.

  The first attack lasted less than fifteen minutes before a horn called the Muslims, so they could regroup for a half hour and charge again. They hoped the speed and weight of their horses would break the line, as it always had. But Charles had planned for such tactics. It was easy to teach a peasant to shove a spear in the ground and stand shoulder to shoulder with his comrade. The tightly packed formations proved impossible to penetrate, and they repelled charge after charge.

  This cycle continued throughout the day, each assault resulting in a brief but bitter hand-to-hand struggle before the Muslim trumpeters would signal the retreat. As the battle raged, Charles ordered reserves to reinforce the weakened line. The Saracens rotated units throughout the day, allowing battered elements to regroup before throwing them back into the bloodshed. Marcus and Thomas had asked Charles to join the melee on several occasions, but he calmly denied each request.

  They found out why just before sunset. The last charge had almost collapsed the line, and during the brief respite that followed, Charles gathered a group of knights together near the base of the knoll.

  "Brothers! The line cannot hold. Our men are exhausted, and we have no reserves. Withdrawal is not an option. And the infidels know this. The sultan will launch one last assault before nightfall, one that I believe he will lead himself." Charles sat up taller in his saddle, the fading sun glinting off his polished armor. "I intend to kill the sultan—or die trying."

  He waited as a murmur swept through the tiny force, each man nodding in solemn agreement.

  "Thomas, speak with the Saxon leader. During the next attack, his men have to create a gap for us to ride through the Muslim line."

  "Yes, sir." Thomas headed off toward the right side of the line.

  Marcus guided his horse to a spot behind the thin Christian line and waited for Thomas to rejoin him.

  A few minutes later, Thomas reined in his horse. "So, what do you think?"

  "I don't like your chances," Marcus said with a shallow smile.

  "Thanks."

  "Next time, don't ask."

  Marcus drew his sword and slid it into a sheath mounted on the left side of his saddle. Next, he retrieved the helmet, hanging near his feet and slipped it on, opening the visor and adjusting it to clear his peripheral vision. He then reached for an angry-looking mace hanging from his pommel and looked over to Thomas, who had completed a similar routine. Within moments, Charles joined their party, brandishing a mighty sword.

  "Fellow Christians!" Charles spun his horse toward the men. "We hold the fate of this great struggle and the destiny of Christendom in our hands. I want the sultan's head on a stick by nightfall. I will give a
thousand francs to the man who strikes him down. Remember, providence has delivered us to this moment, and before the eyes of God, we shall not fail!"

  As if on cue, the distant sound of trumpets floated through the descending twilight. Charles urged his horse to the front of the party, motioning Thomas and Marcus to join him. Together, the trio formed the point of a deadly wedge as they waited for the assault to begin.

  The horde rumbled across the valley like an approaching storm. Marcus sat up in his saddle, peered over the line of soldiers and across the bloody pasture. It appeared as if the entire Muslim army was racing up the valley, trampling over the scattered corpses. One last time, the Frankish bowmen unleashed their fury, further darkening the sky. But once again, the Saracens pushed forward, unchecked, and gaining speed. As the shimmering sun slipped below the tree line, the Muslim horde slammed into the Christian wall. Again, the line rippled from the impact, and in several places the Muslim horsemen reached the last row of soldiers. Finally, in desperation, the archers tossed aside their bows and joined the fighting, attacking the Saracens with sword, club, and dagger. As the slaughter raged, the Saxons struggled to breach the Muslim line.

  The hearty soldiers crept forward, hacking away at the Muslims. One frenzied Saxon led the push, felling man and horse with his mighty hammer. The Muslims fell back as he cleared a deadly swathe through their thinning ranks. With a mighty cry, the resilient Saxons burst through the line, opening a narrow gap. There was no hesitation as Charles spurred his horse forward and led his tiny band into the breach.

  The armored knights thundered through the opening, rushing past the Muslim horsemen and careening onto the open ground beyond. Looking over his shoulder, Marcus watched the gap disappear. There would be no going back.

  Charles led them toward a mass of cavalry near the center of the valley. It was the sultan, surrounded by a contingent of cataphracts. As the Christians approached, an alarm rose from within their midst.

  The Saracens turned to face the danger just as the galloping wedge plunged into their formation. Marcus split two defenders, swinging his weapon in a tight circle. The heavy metal ball caught one adversary in the forehead, shattering his skull and sending him tumbling over the backside of his horse. Leaning forward to avoid a sword thrust, Marcus drove the sharpened tip of his mace into the chin of another attacker, rupturing his larynx and stifling the cry that followed.