America's Galactic Foreign Legion - Book 20: Time Machine

by Walter Knight

  “I watched a lot of TV, passing the time in the Clark County slammer,” commented Caesar with a shrug. “I recognize a Mafia hit man when I see one. All those Sicilians have the same little beady eyes and mustache. So, Czerinski, you have joined the Cult of Assassins? It that what brings you back to my empire? Not a well-thought career change on your part. Too bad, so sad for you.”

  “I’m just a tourist on vacation!” I pleaded on my knees, groveling at Caesar’s feet. “I was forced to bring Tonelli. You saw it. He had a gun on me! What could I do? At first I thought he was just a tour guide. Then he showed his true colors.”

  “Get up and stop your sniveling,” admonished Caesar, kicking me away. “Can you activate my nuke? If not, I have no use for you. You will be cat food for the Circus lions.”

  “Nuke? Are you nuts? I mean, of course I can activate your nuke. Just set the timer, push the button, and run. If that doesn’t work, cut the blue wire. No, I mean the red wire. Yes, that’s it. Have a trusted slave cut the red wire.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, of course. It’s so easy, a caveman could do it. Badda bing, badda boom!”

  “Good man!” exclaimed Caesar, slapping me on the back like a longtime friend. “I knew I could count on you. When I’ve finished off those barbarian Krauts in Germania, and the Chinese, wherever the hell they are, we’ll visit those cavemen you talk so highly about. I could use a vacation, and the People’s Circus needs Neanderthals to give the lions a good fight.”

  * * * * *

  Caesar marched his legions north to meet the Hun, leaving Tonelli to languish, chained deep in a dungeon. I tagged along as Special Consul to the Emperor. At the Rhine River, he paused to build a bridge. Engineers winched up a large stone, ramming double timber piling into the riverbed. The bridge, a masterpiece of military engineering, was completed in just seven days. The legions could have crossed in boats provided by local allies, but Caesar wanted to demonstrate to marauding Germanic tribes the power of Rome, that they could cross in force any place any time, striking like a dagger at the heart of Germania.

  The Legion, four thousand strong, followed overgrown trails from prior campaigns deep into the German forest. Word soon spread of the arrogant Caesar and his Roman legions. Barbarian tribes gathered from across the German heartland to confront Rome. Finally the forest got so dense, clearing a new road became impossible. With no German capital to lay siege, the Romans stopped.

  “Make camp!” ordered Caesar. “We settle up with the barbarians here!”

  “There is no room to maneuver,” commented Centurion Mark Antony, Caesar’s second in command. “We cannot bring our archers and catapults to bear, our cavalry cannot flank the enemy, and our formations cannot assemble in unison. Even our pickets cannot build perimeter barriers to protect our camp.”

  “Build our camp fires high,” ordered Caesar, ignoring Antony’s sage warnings. “I want to draw the barbarians in.”

  “You will get your wish, Caesar. Every barbarian in Europe will join us soon.”

  * * * * *

  Bored, and to humor an increasingly cranky Caesar and Antony, I passed out marshmallows, graham crackers, and chocolate bars to make S’mores. I soon had battle-hardened sergeants eating out of my hand, singing ‘Kumbaya’ by the camp fires.

  “My men are not accustomed to such luxury,” thanked a sergeant. “You must be very rich to acquire such a wonder as chocolate, yet I have not heard of the Czerinski family. Are you Greek?”

  “I am American,” I explained, not explaining anything.

  “Ah, the Land of Milk and Honey, Starbucks coffee, and kudzu – it covers the forest trees everywhere. Many have fallen off the edge of the world, seeking a passage to your precious America. Rumor has it that Admiral Tiberius is not coming back from his voyage. I fear we are not coming back, either. The barbarians draw close.”

  As if on cue, barbarians yelled insults from the forest to provoke the Romans, fierce German fighting words from antiquity.

  “Your grandma masturbates standing up!”

  “Your mother goes whoring in the city!”

  “You are the sons of sluts!”

  “You Roman sons of bitches!”

  Only the famous Roman discipline and extensive military training kept legionnaires in check in the face of such provocation. Even I reached for a grenade hidden in my pants. Those Kraut bastards!

  “One thing you can be assured of is that the great Julius Caesar knows what he is doing and will lead us to even greater victory and glory for Rome!” I assured everyone, loud enough for listening ears. “Caesar will never be beaten in battle!”

  Officers quickly made their way through camp, ordering legionnaires to pack gear and withdraw. Slaves were left to stoke the fires, creating the illusion we remained in camp.

  * * * * *

  Meanwhile, Archimedes attended to the nuke, setting the timer as he had been instructed. He pushed the button. Nothing happened. He kicked the nuke. Still nothing happened. Not being one to panic, Archimedes pulled out the blue and red wires from the control panel. He snipped the red wire. Nothing. He snipped the blue wire. Nothing. Damn! Then, in a moment of inspiration, Archimedes touched the two bare wires together.

  * * * * *

  From beyond the next ridge, the skyline turned to day, followed by the blast. An entire forest was flattened. Surrounding forests caught fire. The barbarian army perished in the hell storm. For decades, Southern Germania was cursed by radiation sickness. Even Julius Caesar was awed by the destructive power of just one nuke.

  “What is the point of conquering the world if the world is destroyed in the process?” lamented Caesar as he rode south, victorious. “It’s better for us to use nukes than for the barbarians to possess such weapons, but I shalt not use nukes ever again.”

  “There will be repercussions,” I warned, shaken by the enormity of the blast. “It’s against the law to explode nukes in the past. I think it’s even written into the Constitution somewhere.”

  “I’m not worried. Life isn’t about weathering the storm, it’s about learning to dance in the rain.”

  “That’s very profound, but see where it gets you when the time cops arrest your ass.”

  “It’s not whether you win or lose, but how you place the blame.”

  “Tell that to the judge at your war crimes trial.”

  “Next time I will use chemical or biological weapons,” replied Caesar contritely. “Less mess that way. As it is, my legionnaires will be upset by the lack of booty on this campaign. They won’t readily accept this new way of waging war. Maybe I’ll appease them by sacking a few barbarian villages on the way back to Rome. Even professional legionnaires need to be thrown a bone once in a while to keep them happy.”

  Chapter 30

  Guido Tonelli prepared to die in the arena, sport for returning legions and the Roman public. Upon Caesar’s triumphant return from Germania, Rome was a party town tonight. Gladiators were issued ample wine. Sword in hand, Tonelli trooped the center of the circus with the other condemned prisoners.

  Tonelli was grouped with scantly armed Christians against heavily armed gladiators equipped as Carthaginians riding in chariots. It did not seem like a fair fight, and it was not. Bladed hubcaps glistened in the bright sunlight as the chariots circled. First blood would be drawn soon. Tonelli and the Christians were told to die gallantly and to put on a good show, or else. Really? Tonelli had other plans.

  The Carthaginians charged, a solid phalanx of horse flesh and armor. Tonelli drew a secreted canister of pepper spray, dousing the lead horses. Blinded and panicked, the beasts reared up, causing a pile-up and carnage that would put an LA freeway to shame. Tonelli also sprayed survivors staggering from the wreckage. Christians rushed forward, stabbing and bludgeoning without mercy.

  The crowd roared its approval for the underdog. They looked to Caesar for the thumbs up, to spare or pardon the victors. Caesar was in no mood to spare worthless Christians or Tonelli. “Tho
se traitors cheated,” he grumbled, giving the thumbs down. Soldiers herded the Christians into a tight circle.

  “Appease the mob,” cautioned Antony, at Caesar’s side. “Let them have their fun. That Sicilian wise guy can be killed at your leisure, anytime.”

  Caesar magnanimously gave the thumbs up. The crowd approved, throwing coins to the victors. Beautiful gladiator groupies threw their villa room keys to Rome’s newest hero of the arena, Guido Maximus Tonelli, from the Bronx. Caught up in the excitement of the moment, Tonelli defiantly shook his fist at Caesar, not one of his wisest moves. Caesar merely shooed them away, making way for the next group of Christians to be slaughtered. Tonelli scooped up a fistfull of room keys as they departed.

  * * * * *

  That night, a beautiful slave girl led Tonelli to an orgy hosted by fat Roman aristocrats. Rich fat ladies poured wine for Tonelli. They gorged themselves on the finest meats and fruits. No excess was too great. Too much of a good thing can be a wonderful experience. Tonelli literally made love to a ton of Roman women. Satiating his hosts, Tonelli stole out a window into the warm night, fleeing Rome south to his ancestral home, Sicily.

  * * * * *

  I rented a pimped out chariot from Avis Chariot Rental, driving south on the Italian Boot, land of sunshine and good wine. Along the way I passed a curious sign advertising ‘Free Dirt,’ not a good omen in any country or empire. Sure enough, behind the billboard lurked a big bellied county cohort. Chew tobacco, chew tobacco, chew tobacco spit. Not again. He waved a red flag for me to pull over.

  “Boy, you’re in a heap o’ trouble. I say, a heap o’ trouble, boy,” advised the cohort. “Do you hear me, boy? I don’t know how they do things up in Rome Town, but in this here part of Old Etrusca, we have laws about reckless driving. You must have been going at least twenty miles per hour!”

  “I wasn’t speeding,” I protested. “Those two old nags aren’t capable of more than a trot on a good day, downhill.”

  “When my horse snorts, it means you’re speeding,” explained the cohort, patting his mount affectionately. “Spot is never wrong.”

  “But Spot is snorting now, and I’m not even moving!”

  “Son, I don’t care much for your tone. You’ll show some respect, if you know what’s good for you. Have you been drinking?”

  “Only two bottles of wine,” I confessed contritely. “With dinner. I’m not drunk.”

  “I beg to differ. Spot can tell you’re drunk. You obviously have too much alcohol content in your blood system. See how he twitches his ears when you breathe his way?”

  “What I have is too much blood content in my alcohol system. Fuck you and the horse you rode in on!”

  In retrospect, I know now it’s never a good idea to aggravate the local constabulary in any time line. I’ve always known that, but at the time, talking trash to the cops seemed like a good idea. It was not. The end result of my flair of temper was an unexpected whack across the side of my head with the flat side of the cohort’s sword. I guess it could have been worse. He could have lopped off my head entirely. Instead, my world went dark.

  * * * * *

  I woke up in the drunk tank of an Etruscan dungeon. Beautiful Tuscany fresco art decorated the walls of my cell, depicting many ancient ways to be slowly and painfully executed. The detail was extraordinary. Guido Tonelli cheerfully greeted me, having thrown water in my face.

  “What did you get busted for, Czerinski? Can’t say I’m surprised to see you.”

  “Drunk driving,” I answered. “You?”

  “Those bastards!” commiserated Tonelli. “I’m in for being a Roman out of season, and resisting arrest. Prejudice runs deep here in the South. What a joke. I’m not even Roman!”

  “What’s the penalty for drunk driving?” I asked, hoping to post bail and be on my way. “Do they take VISA?”

  “It’s all the same, your head on a spike.”

  “Hey!” I shouted at the jailor. “Let me out of here. I’m a personal friend of Julius Caesar! Let me out or heads will roll. I want to post bail!”

  “You’ve still got money?” asked the jailer, interested. “Give it to me.”

  I checked my pockets. Nothing. However, from deep in my crusty underwear I pulled a Beretta pistol, aiming it at the jailer. “Let me out, or die.”

  “Now see here, what’s that you’ve got, more of your Christian relics? Give me that!”

  As the jailer approached, carrying a spiked club, I shot him. He slumped against the bars. Other prisoners rushed forward, stripping the hapless jailer of his keys and sandals. The doors swung open. It was a jail break. Wretched inmates staggered up the stairs to the sunlight and freedom.

  For a carefree tourist like me, freedom wasn’t fully appreciated until lost. It’s like not having milk overseas. You take it for granted. As soon as we got out of town, I ordered Chicken McNuggets and chocolate milk express delivered by UPS to the Appian Way, making a feast of it.

  * * * * *

  We hitchhiked to Sicily, home of baptized Arabs, and Guido Tonelli’s ancestral roots. Suspicious locals directed us to the Tonelli clan compound deep in the hills, where we met Sal Tonelli, patriarch of all Tonellis, present and future. Guido kissed the old man’s ring in a show of respect.

  “I can see the family resemblance,” commented Sal. “You have the brooding Tonelli eyes.”

  “Bloodshot eyes is more like it,” scoffed a cousin, Bruno Tonelli. “Toss this pretender out. He only seeks our family fortune.”

  “We have no family fortune,” argued Sal reasonably. “But, Bruno has a point. What do you really want? Money? Ha! Good luck with that.”

  “I have my own money,” boasted Guido, producing several gold coins. “I am rich.”

  “You appear to be landless. Without land, you are nothing. How do you support yourself?”

  “I kill people.”

  “An assassin!” exclaimed Bruno, brandishing a dagger. “I knew he was trouble!”

  “Stop!” ordered Sal, pocketing the gold coins. “Welcome, my distant nephew, Guido Tonelli. I will show you off in town to those punk Gambinos. And on the way, I can get my Sunday suit out of hock from the pawn shop.”

  “What?”

  “The old man pawns his only suit every Monday to get drunk,” sneered Bruno. “Then he gets it back Saturday in time for church services. What a loser.”

  “I’ll buy you ten suits,” promised Guido. “Only the best for Sal Tonelli.”

  Furious with jealousy, Bruno lunged at Guido with his dagger. “No pretender will steal my inheritance!”

  Guido avoided the first lunge, then shot Bruno several times in the chest. The blasts knocked Bruno back into family and friends before he hit the floor. The clan stood in silent awe, waiting for Sal to pass judgment on the newcomer. Sal was speechless until he said, “By Jupiter, how is this possible?”

  I finally spoke. “Don’t panic or do anything rash. There’s nothing to be afraid of. It’s just a gun.”

  “Like hell!” shouted Guido, still enraged. “Be afraid. Be very afraid. No one pulls a knife on me. Bring a knife to a gunfight, you die! From now on, no one messes with the Tonelli family. There will be no more pawning suits. Not now, not ever! Capisce?”

  All the Tonellis cheered their new capo, rushing forward to kiss Guido’s Bronx Community College graduation ring.

  * * * * *

  The Tonellis celebration was short lived. Julius Caesar appeared at the city gates. He demanded Guido Tonelli be returned to custody. However, Guido fled into the catacombs. No one knew his whereabouts. Sal Tonelli’s rival, Corius Gambino, refused to snitch. There were no snitches in Castellammare del Golfo, Sicily. Even the local cohort knew nothing.

  “We had that punk Tonelli in custody, but he broke out,” explained the cohort in Julius Caesar’s service. “His buddy, a Roman named Czerinski, killed one of my jailers. The Tonelli compound is on the hill at the edge of town, but they’re like rats. They flee when you light them with a torch
.”

  “I don’t know anything about Tonellis, except for Sal, who pawns his suit at my shop before drinking,” advised Gambino. “He comes, he goes. I don’t pay much attention.”

  Caesar examined the ‘black hand’ illustration on the side of Gambino’s shop, comparing similar graffiti on his internet communications device. “So, this is where the Mafia gets its start?”

  “Mafia?” asked Gambino incredulously. “There is no such thing as the Mafia.”

  “Destroy this place,” ordered Caesar. “Crucify them all as an example of what happens when you defy the power of Rome.”

  “The whole town?” asked Antony. “Surely not everyone?”

  “Everyone! Starting with these two idiots!”

  No one was spared. Men, women, children, even dogs and goats were nailed to the crosses lining the road out of town. Buildings were torn down and burned. Olive orchards were cut. The city was plowed over, and salt sowed into the soil, completing the utter destruction of beautiful Castellammare del Golfo. Caesar decreed no one would ever live there again, leaving two trunkless legs of stone in the barren desert by the sea as a reminder not to ever mess with Rome.

  * * * * *

  “I invoke the vendetta against Caesar and all that is Roman,” swore Sal Tonelli as he led his family by torchlight through the ancient catacomb passages to the sea. “But for now, I will go to America and make a new life, rebuild my family.”

  “You can’t go to America,” replied Guido. “Christopher Columbus hasn’t discovered it yet. If you try, you will drop off the edge of the world. Trust me, for now, the world is flat. You need a Plan B.”

  “Then we will travel by fishing boat to Palestine. I hear it’s peaceful there, a friendly place to raise a family. And, the Jews hate Romans.”

  “Not my first choice,” replied Guido thoughtfully. “But the weather is temperate in Palestine, I suppose.”