Bordeaux

by Matthew Thayer

  A half hour later, while traders and wanderers circled the bodies trying to piece together the cause of their untimely demise, Holy Troops surrounded the camp in an effective and orderly fashion. Under the watchful eyes of Lord Lorenzo, his woman Wallunda and clan representative Big Ears, the Tattoos formed a cordon to ensure no sinners escaped the opportunity to hear the Word of Jesus. In the end, many were called, but few were chosen.

  The Porters happened to be off on a hunt, so, unfortunately, they missed out on their chance to see the Tattoos unleash their missionary zeal on the collection of clans and travelers. It was obvious His Holiness has been drilling his troops, for they worked in a very concerted, well-organized way.

  At the completion of the lakeside church service, the Tattoos had collected offerings which included an interesting assortment of personal possessions, trade items and dried, preserved foods. Three men were deemed potential recruits and carefully restrained to give them time to grasp the great opportunity they were being granted. A baker’s dozen of the women were instantly smitten by the warriors, and could not resist their urges to please the men. The soldiers were happy to oblige after such a long journey.

  A total of 32 souls were delivered to judgment day after either rejecting the teachings of the Lord Lorenzo or not measuring up to the great man’s incredibly high ideals and standards. In his wisdom, he ordered the sinners’ bodies carried far downhill, away from the lake so they would not foul its waters as they return to the earth and nourish the soil in God’s Honor.

  His Holiness obviously had things well in hand and didn’t need my help. I waited for the end of the service before poling the kayak to shore. Its paddle was safely locked inside the hull, but I didn’t mind using a spear. I need the exercise after gaining at least 15 kilos, no doubt due to my restricted mobility and insatiable desire for heavy foods.

  Lord Lorenzo greeted me warmly. He asked many questions regarding my health, the whereabouts of my porters, and the location of the woman called Kolettelena. It is unfortunate he missed her. She is a merchant who resides more or less permanently along the banks of the lake, trading in goods and services with traffic passing on the main inland trail. I had the opportunity to meet the woman and enjoy some of her fine food before she and her entourage were called away on an urgent mission. Evidently, her father had suffered a bad fall. A runner arrived requesting she to rush to his aid. She left with nary a wave goodbye.

  The witches I spoke of are actually a pair of shaman who seem to have caught the fancy of his Holiness. He states they are able to treat a variety of maladies and injuries, and are adept at divining the future. The duo wear brilliant feather capes which drape nearly to the ground. The red cape is worn by the elder of the two, a rather stern woman with salt and pepper hair tied back to accentuate her bulbous forehead. Her younger sister, with her penetrating eyes and suspicious manner, wears blue.

  I expected Wallunda to chafe at the women’s influence and access to the Great Man. It hasn’t happened. Yet. She too appears mesmerized by their odd powers.

  I recline against a log, perhaps a half a kilometer uphill from the Tattoo campfires. I hear nothing of their music and shouts, but can see them cavorting about the fires as they settle in for the nightly entertainment. His Holiness granted my leave after our evening’s repast of frog legs and fried duck eggs. I see he has taught Wallunda some of the finer points of cooking, like removing the eggshells rather than casting the entire lot into the ash and cinders. His efforts to improve this sorry world are never done.

  The Porters returned after sunset. Having remembered my instructions to hide at the first sign of Tattoo, they had scampered off to a stand of oaks along the far side of the lake. Once the Tattoos become immersed in the spirit of the Lord, it is best to give them a wide berth.

  His Holiness seems anxious to press on to the Mediterranean. He has ordered that we move out at daybreak. I have mixed feelings about returning to Nice in its unblemished, primitive state. I so loved its red tile roofs and narrow streets, the blare of air car horns and rumbling trains, Italian and French influences, perfectly spiced by cultures from around the world. The chaos of Nice is part of what made the place my home away from home.

  My mouth waters as I cast back to the cuisine of my favorite Turkish restaurant. During my studies, I traveled extensively through the Middle East, yet the finest Turkish fare was to be found in a tiny place in Old Town. With only four tables inside and a few more encroaching into the busy pedestrian street, patrons lined up around the block on Friday nights to sample the one-eyed cook’s karniyarik. I doubt anyone will be serving lamb kebabs and mercimek on this visit to Nice.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Martinelli: “Now, this writing is better. Not so dry, and not so obviously kissing my ass as you play your little games. There’s just enough Bolzano wit and disrespect to make it interesting.”

  Bolzano: “I intended no disrespect.”

  Martinelli: “Do you think I do not notice your digs at Wallunda? The way you mock her appearance?”

  Bolzano: “She and I have never hit it off. That’s all. She hates me and I admit, I am not very fond of her.”

  Martinelli: “Perhaps she isn’t the most beautiful choice of these women, but she is certainly the smartest and most loyal. Say what you will, Wallunda always has my back. It is more than I can say for you.”

  Bolzano: “There is no denying her dedication to your every need. I will try to be more diplomatic in future missives.”

  Martinelli: “Write whatever you want. I like to get your take on events. Try as I might, I cannot be in two places at once.”

  Bolzano: “Lorenzo, may I have a word?”

  Martinelli: “Oh boy, here it comes. What do you want?”

  Bolzano: “I was thinking….”

  Martinelli: “A dangerous sign. What were you thinking?”

  Bolzano: “I wish to suggest a shift in tactics for our holiday season in Nice.”

  Martinelli: “What do you know of tactics, Rabbit?”

  Bolzano: “Tactics, agenda, a code of conduct, I am not sure what you would call it.”

  Martinelli: “Just spit it out, already.”

  Bolzano: “We are going to settle in for more than a month, right? I suggest we make the Christmas season a time of peace. That would be appropriate, no? You could order your troops to stand down. We could coexist with the clans and cultures we encounter.”

  Martinelli: “We are Christians. It is our duty to spread the Word of God.”

  Bolzano: “Think back to the time from which we came. People of other religions and cultures lived side by side, more or less in harmony. I loved the variety on display in the streets and parks of Milano. I remember how the old Jews would walk by in their black robes and wide-brimmed hats, hands clasped behind their backs, heads dipped in conversation. They seemed so ancient and mysterious.”

  Martinelli: “Small-kid days in Pistoia, we used to throw stones at those guys. Heebs.”

  Bolzano: “Instead of throwing stones, you would have been better off asking for advice.”

  Martinelli: “What’s your point?”

  Bolzano: “The point is, those men might have taught you a thing or two about trade. I am offering you a chance to turn a tidy profit. We almost have more booty than we can carry.”

  Martinelli: “Carriers are not a problem. We added three men today.”

  Bolzano: “We do not need any more turtle shell combs or braided leather ropes. You say you plan to cache these items where Cardinal Sellaro can find them.”

  Martinelli: “In Firenze, yes.”

  Bolzano: “Most of your offerings will never stand the test of time, or you will just flood the market with low grade Venus statuettes. I suggest we dump the junk, trade quantity for quality.”

  Martinelli: “What you gonna do. Go up to people and ask them if they want to trade beads for diamonds?”

  Bolzano: “Why not let them come to us? We’ll find a place to set up shop and go into the
trading business. If I understand Tomon correctly, Swedsissi, the area we know as Nice, is already an important trading center. My dad always said if you want to open a business, find a competitor who is making money hand over fist, and then set up shop across the street. Tomon says we’ll see far more people and far richer goods as we descend down to the main coast trail.”

  Martinelli: “Big Ears and Wallunda have told me the same thing. Sounds like ripe pickings.”

  Bolzano: “Why use a hammer when a velvet glove will do?”

  Martinelli: “You’re full of witty analogies today.”

  Bolzano: “Thank you. I ask, however, who makes more on a bank heist, the robber or the bank’s owner? The robber risks his life and the lives of others, to walk away with what, several thousand Euros, or maybe several million in a big job? Now consider the banker who uses his computers to cheat each customer of one Euro on each transaction. The risk is slight, there are no guns, and the payoff continues for years and years.”

  Martinelli: “This happens?”

  Bolzano: “Did you balance your account back in the day? Down to the last Euro, every time?”

  Martinelli: “So you want to open a bank? Ha, ha, that’s a good one.”

  Bolzano: “Not a bank, a store. And we don’t necessarily need to cheat people. Consider it a consolidation. We’ll trade our smaller, inferior items, and those which will be dust in 32,000 years for the best of the best. Like us.”

  Martinelli: “The Team, the best of the best. I haven’t thought about that for a while. Why do we need to trade for things when we can just take them?”

  Bolzano: “Word of our advance spreads far and wide. Kolettelena knew we were coming weeks before we arrived. Even here, in this backward time, news travels fast. Tomon says Cro-Magnon traders are crafty pack rats who bury their top goods in holes along the trail. Why carry your heavy, expensive relics when a band of warriors is likely to swoop down and take them away? I imagine the really good pieces have been stored safely underground, or in the depths of hollow trees.”

  Martinelli: “Who runs the store? You? Thief?”

  Bolzano: “You would need someone who understands how to barter, one with an eye for quality.”

  Martinelli: “Someone like you.”

  Bolzano: “I see my role as more managerial. How about one of your witches? The one with the blue cape, Miss Poker Face. She exhibits quite an interest in your collection.”

  Martinelli: “I’ve named her Esther. She does like pretty things.”

  Bolzano: “Why not put her in charge of the store? We can show her the types of pieces we are interested in, the carved ivory mammoth sculpture comes to mind. Instruct her to trade away the combs and ropes and wooden Venus pendants in return for such items.”

  Martinelli: “How does this benefit me?”

  Bolzano: “Have you heard the expression, ‘You catch more flies with honey than you do with vinegar?’ This is what I am suggesting to you. Settle in along the coast, pick a beautiful spot to live, and coexist with the people. Announce you are willing to do business and see what happens. It might also prove to be an effective way to spread The Word. Invite the neighbors to church and see if they come.”

  Martinelli: “Like they did by the lake, after the fire. The clans just poured in to hear the Word of God. That was a special time. At least, it was until Andre’s betrayal.”

  Bolzano: “I would suggest garrisoning the bulk of your troops a fair distance from the population center–whatever that is. There must be a flat plain nearby where they could train and fight and raise Tattoo havoc on their own.”

  Martinelli: “Why do you attempt to separate me from my troops? What game do you play?”

  Bolzano: “It is no game. You are more at home than I am with the Tattoo predilection toward violence. You are also able to disappear with Wallunda and do as you please. Not so for me, I cannot so easily walk away from their depredations as you.”

  Martinelli: “Have your Porters carry you.”

  Bolzano: “I do, when they are around. You understand what I am saying, do you not? Those violent hotheads will scare away potential customers, and make life miserable for everyone. Lorenzo, I need a break. I long for civility, peace and quiet, a place to mend my shattered feet.”

  Martinelli: “I’ll think about it. How’s the wine coming?”

  Bolzano: “This batch looks promising. Kolettelena’s clay pots have proven far superior to the leather skins. What we really need are oak barrels. Perhaps we can try our hands at coopering when we settle in.”

  Martinelli: “Make barrels of oak? With stone tools? Dream on.”

  Bolzano: “Admittedly, it was a special craft, an art. Who knows what sort of artisans and craftsmen we might encounter down these hills. That is, if we don’t rush forth to either kill or frighten them all away?”

  Martinelli: “I said I’d think about it. Don’t push your luck.”

  Bolzano: “Yes, Your Holiness.”

  Martinelli: “That’s better, Rabbit.”

  From the log of Cpl. Salvatore Bolzano

  Firefighter II

  (English translation)

  His Holiness Lorenzo Martinelli has asked that I detail the success of today’s mass in observance of the first Sunday of Advent. The two-hour morning service was held under bright sunny skies in a natural amphitheater formed on the eastern lee of Nice’s landmark hill, the Colline du Chateau. The Chosen One preached his sermon from the rocky beach while more than 300 rapt early modern humans sat attentively on ledges and boulders, listening to every word.

  By utilizing the amplifiers in his helmet, he was able to project his message clearly to the most distant ears. He only needed to make an example of two disruptive, talkative sinners before the proper decorum was obtained. The belches of fire, thunderous reports and twitching bodies certainly got the natives’ attention.

  Along with His Holiness on the beach, facing the crowd, were twelve Saints, Wallunda, Big Ears, the Singing Porters and myself. As the Chosen One delivered his fiery sermon from a pulpit made of limbs lashed together with leather cords, we were in position to see his message sink into the collection of amazed faces. They arrived smudged and wary and left with their hearts filled with the Word of Jesus. The Porters put on a particularly good show. The people of this age have a true appreciation for drumming and rhythms. They know their stuff, and we had them swaying in their seats, clapping their hands and tapping their feet.

  When communion was served to the Saints and inner circle, the congregation sat spellbound, no doubt wondering when it will be its turn to sample the “Blood of Jesus which makes your head tingle.” That is a rough translation of how the Saints refer to my latest vintage. When those boys spread out with their collection plates, I would like to think the audience got its money’s worth in return for being strong-armed into coughing up their necklaces and ivory bracelets. The store will have a replenished supply of trade goods when it opens on the morn.

  As store manager, Esther has proven to be worth her weight in gold. She has a keen eye for detail, and was born to haggle. We explained what we were after and she said she would help us if we allowed her continue her side business as doctor and veterinarian.

  That is how we have come to have a steady stream of patients stopping by our store with one malady after another. She sets broken bones, stitches wounds, removes splinters, amputates limbs and sells folded oak leaves filled with a suspicious paste which she claims will cure everything from infertility to shingles.

  She is paid in herbs and foodstuffs. Often, patients return days later with their recompense–certain roots, barks, mushrooms and leaves that she instructed them to gather. When I asked if she ever worries people will refuse to pay up, she shrugged her shoulders in a way that said they were always welcome to try a different doctor next time.

  From her makeshift clinic, Esther spreads word she is interested in trade. Initially, more people arrived with injuries than did with trade items. Now, I estimate she spen
ds half her time at each occupation, switching gears seamlessly between healer and haggler.

  Yesterday she talked a clan leader into trading his tribe’s ceremonial ivory club for a collection of trinkets and a sack of shelled nuts. The piece will fetch a fair fortune 32,000 years from now if we can somehow place it where the Cardinal can find it.

  Throughout the bargaining process, she busied herself by sewing a poor child’s face back together. The little girl had been attacked while feeding the family dog. Stoic parents pinned the screaming girl to the ground as Esther efficiently used an ivory needle and length of cured goat intestine to stitch tight the gashes in her cheeks and scalp. Between stitches, she fired off counteroffers to the leader. The man seemed to take no notice of the girl’s suffering, or her screams, as he bartered hard to receive fair trade for his meter-long club. He insisted the tapered length of mammoth tusk was owned by his grandfather’s grandfather and had great value. He claimed the long-ago ancestor won the club by killing a Neanderthal who had it in his possession as he crossed a glacier far to the north.

  The head-basher is nearly two meters long and must weigh more than a dozen kilos. I imagine it is too unwieldy for all but the strongest Cro-Magnons in battle. In the hands of a stout Neanderthal, however, it would cut quite a swath.

  A carved history of the clan’s exploits has been added through the years. Spiraling up the sides in stunning grace and beauty, a brevity of lines, etched with stone tools, vividly captures great hunts, births, running herds and running men.

  Though I wanted it badly, I knew better than to show my interest. I watched from a seat outside the tent. She sent the parents and sobbing child away with a folded leaf of her cure-all potion, put away her implements, then turned to the leader and studied his eyes. With a defeated sigh, she offered to throw in a sack of nuts which had been shelled by a man who had been afflicted by an abscessed tooth. I know this because I was there when she knocked the smelly tooth out by rapping a rock on the end of a well-placed stick. The nuts clinched the deal. The leader exited the tent to be surrounded by a cluster of women anxious to see what price the club had fetched. The chattering mob followed in his wake as he strode down the dusty trail.