Dream War

by Stephen Prosapio

  “The Red Brigades soon splintered into various factions. One became the ‘Communist Combatant Party,’ another took the name ‘Union of Combatant Communists.’ The last group went deep underground and seemed to eschew many of the political tenets of the original Brigades.”

  Drew nodded politely at the history lesson. Not seeing a point, his eyes began to glaze over.

  “Finally, we come to the Sogno di Guerra.”

  The old man’s sudden Italian snapped Drew to attention.

  “The last splintered group merged with an older, secret organization we had little information on. They called themselves the Sogno di Guerra, which means ‘Dream of War’ or ‘War Dream.’ The name wasn’t far out of line with what the original Red Brigades stood for, so we assumed they’d continue their war on the establishment. We infiltrated all three splinter organizations with undercover operatives. The first two sects planned car bombings, kidnappings, election fraud, and the like. By the mid-nineteen eighties, we’d all but neutralized them.”

  Lopez’s antagonistic attitude was gone and he seemed submerged in an intense focus.

  “In contrast to the other groups,” Alfonso continued, “the Sogno di Guerra turned out to be something altogether different. They believed that some magical force had visited their dreams and was recruiting them to be a part of some grand destiny. They sought the overthrow of not only the Italian government, but all world institutions. Their bizarre manifesto stated that they would infiltrate people’s dreams and cause irrevocable damage. They underwent ‘dream training’ and conducted what they called ‘dream raids’ and ‘dream torture.’”

  “So, then what?” Lopez asked.

  “It was decided that the group was a bunch of lunatics. Just before our agent was to be pulled out of the organization, he disappeared and his entire family turned up dead.”

  “How were they killed?” Lopez asked as if he already knew the answer.

  “They were found dead in their beds. Their throats slashed.” Alfonso stopped and looked at Drew. “Like the lady at the hotel. It is their signature.”

  Lopez cracked a window for a smoke as Alfonso’s gruesome story continued to unfold.

  “I’d met with him for his weekly report the day he vanished. He claimed the group was obsessed with obtaining a set of ancient medallions. He’d smuggled one out and he wanted it researched. Of course, at the time I didn’t think much of it, but…“ His voice trailed off and he was quiet a second. “Drew, would you kindly unbutton my shirt?”

  “Ah, no, I don’t think so.” He squinted and looked to Lopez for counsel.

  The old man rattled the cuffs behind his back.

  “Undo his shirt,” Lopez said with an approving nod.

  Once completed, the task revealed a chest covered in thick, spiraled, gray hair, upon which hung a now-familiar medallion. Alfonso’s was less worn than the others Drew had seen. It was clear that the sword in the hand of the horseman extended toward the heavens. The look on the rider’s face appeared proud, maybe defiant.

  “Where do the medallions come from?” Lopez asked, snuffing out his cigarette before it was half finished.

  Alfonso looked at him and smiled. “You know, that’s kind of a personal question. I still don’t know your name.”

  Lopez’s head tipped from side to side like a scale weighing the evidence. He returned the smile, but it looked forced.

  “I’m Hector Lopez.” His tone was friendly, but Lopez showed no sign of being willing to free his prisoner.

  Alfonso didn’t seem to mind terribly. “I do think we should keep each other, especially the little girl, in sight at all times,” Alfonso said, looking straight at Lopez. “You know how much danger we’re all in.”

  Lopez agreed and, after adjusting some dials on the control panel of his surveillance equipment, took a small, silver key to Alfonso’s back.

  “Don’t get too excited. We’re only moving these to the front.” He clicked the metal cuffs closed and placed his bomber jacket over Alfonso’s bound hands. “No need to alarm Alexis,” he said.

  They walked out to the front room where Nadia was brushing Alexis’s hair. Jimmy Neutron and his robotic dog, Goddard, had taken over the airwaves.

  Lopez cleared off a glass-topped table that occupied the small dining area just to the left of the main room. Nadia quickly joined them and glanced from Lopez to Drew.

  “He’s going to tell us the history of the medallions,” Drew said to her.

  “The medallions were minted by someone destined to become one of the most misunderstood and treacherous men in the history of the world,” Alfonso began. “Born in Thrace, a region northeast of Greece, his name was Spartacus.”

  Nadia cocked her head. “Wait, wait, what are you talking about? Wasn’t Spartacus a good guy? A hero?”

  Alfonso groaned. “Trust me, the real Spartacus was no Kirk Douglas!”

  Lopez’s voice was loud. “Hey, I saw that movie as a kid. I liked it.”

  “That film was the biggest piece of—”

  He stopped, looked to where Alexis was watching TV, and grunted. His already ruddy skin tone had turned a darker red and a vein on his temple protruded.

  “It was the most historically inaccurate biography ever made. That the facts were altered not for entertainment purposes but to espouse a political ideology, is what gives me agita.”

  “Huh?” Nadia and Lopez responded in stereo.

  “It was communist propaganda!” The vein looked ready to burst. “The novel, Spartacus, was written by an American Communist Party member, Howard Fast. The screenplay was penned by another admitted communist, Dalton Trumbo.”

  “What do you mean by propaganda?” Lopez asked.

  “Historical inaccuracies abound. First, Spartacus wasn’t born a slave; he didn’t work in some salt mine and become a gladiator because he took some moral stand. Some of the more modern portrayals mix in more accurate historical information, but they all portray Spartacus as a hero. He was not. Fact. Spartacus fought in the Roman Army. He deserted, was caught, and sent to a gladiatorial school. In essence, he was sentenced to a life of slavery. The gladiators weren’t innocents merely fighting for their freedom. What bullshit!”

  The last word, overheard by Alexis in the other room, had spun her head in their direction. Alfonso apologized to Nadia, and lowered his voice, his tone becoming a whispered rumble.

  “In reality, the Gladiators, led by Spartacus, went up and down the Italian peninsula raiding small, undefended towns, raping and stealing from the inhabitants. Everything including and after that famous ‘I am Spartacus!’ ‘No, I am Spartacus!’ scene was abject fiction. It had absolutely zero historical truth.”

  Drew realized he had been holding his breath since Alfonso’s tirade began; his muscles were as tight as stretched rope. He hoped to lighten the mood a little. “So, you’re saying the Academy Awards it won should be returned?”

  Alfonso took a deep breath. “Kid, I’m saying that, had James Cameron’s Titanic been as historically false as Stanley Kubrick’s Spartacus, not only would the ‘Unsinkable Molly Brown’ have managed to fix the iceberg’s damage, but the ship would have gone on to a long and happy life as the Love Boat.”

  “So what really happened?” Nadia asked.

  “The facts. In 73 BC, Spartacus engineered an impressive mutiny and fled to the top of Mount Vesuvius.”

  Nadia’s face scrunched in disbelief. “Vesuvius? The volcano?”

  “Yes, at that time it had been a thousand years since the previous eruption, and it was believed to be just another mountain.”

  “Of course.” Drew slapped the table. “This was before the destruction of Pompeii. At that time, the Romans had no point of reference for a volcanic explosion.”

  “Correct.” Alfonso looked at Lopez. “Have you told them about Luzveyn Dred?”

  Lopez nodded. “Some.”

  “Good.” Alfonso continued, “So, while atop Vesuvius, Spartacus must have been snatched to t
he Spatium Quartus by Luzveyn Dred and corrupted with promises of power and riches. Together they forged the medallions. Spartacus distributed them to his followers, who sewed them into their battle gear before fighting. It empowered them to defeat the Roman garrison of three thousand men sent to suppress the uprising.”

  Lopez showed no reaction, but the look on Nadia’s face mirrored Drew’s thoughts. Thank God we kept this whacko handcuffed!

  “I can tell what you’re thinking. I’m not senile, and I’m not insane.” He turned to Lopez. “Have you been attacked while wearing your medallion?”

  “I was mugged once.”

  “How much time did your attackers end up spending in the hospital?” Alfonso flashed a knowing smile.

  Lopez seemed to ponder a moment, his silence indicating his surrender on that point.

  “Would it have the same effect in sports?” he asked finally.

  “You tell me.” Alfonso said.

  “Well, early in his life I insisted that my son, Jose, wear a medallion at night to protect him, should Luzveyn Dred track us down. By the time he was old enough to question it, wearing the medallion to bed had become as much a part of his night-time routine as brushing his teeth.

  “A few months back, while shooting hoops with Jose, I suggested he wear the medallion during basketball games as a good luck charm. I hoped it would be a self-fulfilling placebo, and hadn’t thought much about it, even after his promotion to the starting team. The team’s recent winning streak has been nothing short of amazing.”

  “So you’re saying you can’t be beaten if you’re wearing a medallion?” Drew asked.

  “I wouldn’t say, ‘can’t,’ but let’s have a little demonstration and allow you to decide. Nadia, would you call your daughter in here for a moment?”

  She looked at Lopez, who signaled a hesitant approval. Nadia pried Alexis away from her cartoon with the promise that they would do something fun. By the time they returned, despite the cuffs, Alfonso had managed to pull a twenty euro bill from his wallet.

  “Alexis. I want you to come and get this from me. Your mommy, Drew, and Mr. Lopez are going to try to stop you.”

  She looked to Nadia, who smiled. “It’s okay honey. It’s a game.”

  Alfonso instructed the three adults to place their medallions onto the table. He also encouraged them not to hold anything back in their attempts to prevent her from reaching him. Once everyone was settled, in a loud voice, the old man said, “Ready…Go!”

  The words hung in the air, but already an onslaught of hands and arms grabbed for Alexis. She ducked under a chair, breaking free of them. She paused a moment, stood up, and then backpedaled into the front room. The subsequent struggle resembled a Three Stooges episode. The small girl’s arms became as difficult to grab as a flopping, wet fish. On several occasions, she dove, or moved to an area where the others had no angle to grab her. Moreover, she moved with lightning-fast reflexes.

  At one point, Drew had a clear shot at her. He took one step in her direction, and inexplicably, one of the kitchen chairs moved slightly to block his chance.

  Four minutes elapsed before Alexis managed to grab Lopez’s calf, throw him off-balance, and slip past him. With a wide smile, Alexis darted to Alfonso and snatched the bill from his linked hands.

  “Nice work!” He appeared to cherish the moment. “Now, honey, one day you will have to come to Italy to see me and buy something with this, okay?”

  Her bangs fell over her eyes as she nodded.

  Only he and Alexis were not breathing heavily. The three failed captors looked at each other in amazement.

  “Congratulations, Alexis, you avoided and defeated three grownups.” Alfonso made the announcement more to them than to her. “Imagine had she been trying to inflict damage, rather than just elude capture.”

  After Alexis had taken her prize back to the couch and her cartoons, Alfonso continued the fascinating story.

  “Spartacus and his band of slaves defeated an entire legion, three thousand soldiers, in their first skirmish. In the next battle, he defeated more than twice that number and captured the Roman fasces, the symbol for Rome’s power and authority. From that point on, their pride hurt, Rome spared no expense or effort to squelch the uprising. They even called the great Roman General Pompey and his army home from a foreign war. Marcus Licinius Crassus, the wealthiest man in Rome, spent obscene amounts of money to destroy the band of slaves.”

  Alfonso searched his breast pocket and pulled out a few yellowed pieces of paper. He squinted, and handed them to Nadia.

  “Could you? My eyes…”

  “It says it’s from Appian’s Civil War.” She read: ‘Spartacus, first sacrificing three hundred Roman prisoners to Crixus, made for Rome after burning the useless equipment and putting all the prisoners to death.’”

  “And the next one, too?”

  “This is from, Florus’s Epitome. ‘Spartacus ordered his captives to fight at their pyres, just as though he wished to wipe out all his past dishonor by having become, instead of a gladiator, a giver of gladiatorial shows.’”

  Alfonso looked at them. “These are accounts of the time. This fellow with the devil-may-care attitude about killing isn’t exactly the All-American-type hero he was portrayed as in the movies, huh?”

  Heads slowly shook.

  “After surviving the winter, Spartacus’s forces moved north, presumably to escape, cross the Alps, and return to their homes. Along the way, he defeated legions of armies dispatched by Rome. Then, an odd thing happened. The Germanic people in the slave army lost faith in Spartacus and demanded to separate. The slave general acquiesced under one condition.”

  Drew was the first to venture a guess. “That they leave behind the medall—”

  “Exactly! He even bought them back with the gold they had plundered. Any guess as to what happened to that group?”

  “They were defeated?” Lopez asked.

  “Not just defeated, they were wiped out. Within days, every man, woman, and child was killed by the Roman army. Spartacus showed his true colors by continuing the march north. Those people meant nothing to him. Not long after, he reached the Alps and freedom, but in an action so bizarre that it has confounded historians for two thousand years, he turned back and marched his army south.”

  “Why?” Drew and Nadia asked in unison.

  “That’s the million dollar question, kids,” Alfonso replied. “My theory is that he was called back.”

  “By Luzveyn Dred.” Lopez said.

  “Yes. He let some of the people continue northward to their homes, among them, his pregnant wife.”

  “Wait, what?” Drew had not expected that.

  “One of the few aspects that the film Spartacus got right was that his wife made it back to Thrace. History lost track of her. However, Spartacus’s blood line continued.”

  “But eventually Spartacus was defeated by the Roman army,” Drew said, trying to square the historical fact with Alfonso’s claims about the medallions.

  “Yes, quickly, let me tell you the rest of the story.” Alfonso said. The old-timer had been transformed into a man energized by the truth. “Spartacus made a deal with Cilician pirates to transport the slave army to Sicily. They intended to use the island as a safe base to continue to pillage the Romans. Moreover, it’s easy to imagine that Luzveyn Dred had promised Spartacus an empire.

  Legend tells that the pirates sensed the medallions’ power and had demanded some of the precious coins in advance as payment for safe passage. Spartacus and his warriors fought their way down to the tip of the boot of Italy, modern-day Reggio Calabria. There they awaited transport to the island. By that time, however, the pirates may have come to appreciate the power of the medallions. It’s likely that they now feared Spartacus and refused to risk the fate of the island to the gladiator general and his ferocious army.

  An obscure text refers to a legend that claims the pirates reneged on their end of the deal, because they were warned Spartacus had alr
eady given away a powerful gold medallion that he had promised them,” Alfonso said.

  “Gold medallion?” Nadia asked.

  “Yes, Spartacus apparently wore a gold medallion that we can theorize contained more of the Spatium Quartus than the silver ones.” Alfonso sighed. “When it comes to the medallions, we have much conjecture, but little tangible proof. Then again, much of legend has some basis in fact.”

  “So what finally happened to Spartacus and his army?” Nadia asked.

  Alfonso rubbed his hands together, and then stopped as the handcuffs prohibited their movement. “As the Roman Army, the greatest military power in the world, closed in, we can imagine how envy and terror spread among the slave army. Many of the soldiers had been stripped of their medallions. Rome sent at least eight legions, thirty-two thousand elite Roman soldiers, who trapped the slave army on Italy’s southern peninsula. The Roman General Crassus, rather than fight, chose to build a sixty kilometer wall and dig a ditch of the same length from the Tyrrhenian to the Ionian Sea. He hoped to isolate the slave army on the tip of the boot until they starved. Some still managed somehow to fight out and escape.”

  It was quiet for a moment, save the sound of Alexis flipping through channels in search of better cartoons.

  “Then what?” Nadia was obviously spellbound.

  “South of Naples, near modern-day Salerno, the Roman army defeated Spartacus and what was left of his army. Even though Spartacus’s body was never found, every slave who had fought with him was hunted down. Along the Appian Way, the road leading south from Rome to Capua, all captured slaves were crucified.”

  “How many?” Nadia asked.

  “More than six thousand.”

  Nadia’s eyes bulged.

  “Wasn’t an order given never to remove the bodies?” Drew asked.

  Alfonso slowly nodded. “Yes, a decade later, the crosses, and whatever remained of the carcasses, remained, as a gruesome reminder of what happened to slaves with delusions of grandeur. There never was another major slave uprising against Rome. And although Luzveyn Dred failed in that attempt to breach the Spatium Quartus, the terror and wide-spread bloodshed of the slave revolt allowed his evil to begin to seep into our collective subconscious. Years later, the horrific eruption of Mount Vesuvius from the very place Spartacus had joined Luzveyn Dred presented a new fear to western civilization—the instant annihilation of an entire population.”