Out of the Ashes

by Lori Dillon

  Hershel took Marsha’s arm and, with one last longing look at his half-eaten cake, followed behind the messenger angel like a naughty boy headed for the principal’s office.

  Ushered by the same overly cheerful secretary into the cloud office they were becoming all too familiar with, Hershel and Marsha took their respective seats.

  The statue of Apollo had been replaced with a large and rather colorful painting by an artist named Picasso. The odd placement of the subject’s features gave Marsha the willies. One eye appeared to be looking off to the side while the other seemed to be staring directly at her, daring her to deny her guilt.

  SGA Smithers entered the office and walked around them to stand at his desk. He threw a handful of papers on the tabletop and sat down without acknowledging their presence. Reaching out his hands, he calmly placed them on either side of the stack of papers.

  His quiet demeanor unnerved Marsha. She’d much rather have him yelling and screaming at her than this calm reserve. She had absolutely no idea what he was thinking.

  Finally he looked at them, staring first at her and then at Hershel. Marsha could hear Hershel squirming in his chair without looking at him. It took everything in her not to squirm a little herself.

  “Do you mind telling me what the problem is with your two clients?”

  “Well, Mr. Smithers, it seems we’ve run into a few minor glitches with them.”

  “A few minor glitches? I don’t call sending these people back not once, not twice, but three times a minor glitch. It’s been over eighteen centuries since this whole fiasco started, they’ve been returned three times, and you two still haven’t gotten it right. What is it going to take?”

  Marsha cleared her throat.

  “Well, to be honest, not all of it was our fault.”

  “Not your fault?” Smithers’s bushy brows rose so high on his forehead that Marsha thought they were going to disappear into his scalp. “How is it not your fault? Please explain it to me.”

  “Well, first there was the volcano incident.”

  “I know, I know. You missed the natural disaster memo. We’ve been over that one.” Smithers picked up a paper from the stack in front of him. “It says here that you then sent them back to the fifth century. Ah, I see that Female 5923 did get married.”

  Marsha nodded in agreement.

  “Yes, as a matter of fact she did.”

  “To Attila the Hun! Exactly how did that mix-up happen?”

  Marsha placed her hands on her knees, trying to stop them from shaking beneath her navy wool skirt.

  “Well, it was all planned that she was to be betrothed to Attila, but Male 2028 was supposed to save her before the actual wedding took place.”

  “Yes, I’m listening.”

  “Apparently there was a typo on the relocation application for Male 2028.”

  “Really?”

  “You see, he was supposed to return as a Hun on horseback.”

  “And he was sent back as…?”

  Marsha and Hershel glanced nervously at each other.

  “A monk with a hunchback,” Hershel mumbled as he sank lower in his chair.

  “I see. And did either of you proof the relocation form before it was sent down?”

  “I thought Hershel had done it.”

  Hershel looked at Marsha as if she had just implicated him in a murder.

  “Me? I thought you did it.”

  Smithers held up his hand, effectively halting what could have turned into a full-blown spat. He glanced down at the paper in his hand and then back at the two of them.

  “So, Attila died on his wedding night.”

  Marsha raised her finger in the air. “Now, that was planned.”

  “Yes, I know. However, he was supposed to die a brutal warrior’s death. It was the least he deserved. After all, he wasn’t called the Scourge of God for nothing.”

  “Yes, well, things got a bit out of hand.”

  “A bit out of hand? The girl clobbered him in the face with a serving tray. She knocked him unconscious, and the man died of a nosebleed in his own marriage bed.”

  “Could you blame her?” Marsha huffed. “I certainly wouldn’t want to see that filthy, drunk barbarian coming at me with lust on his mind.”

  Smithers closed his eyes and shook his head.

  “It doesn’t matter now. At least Attila reached his final destination on time. So what went wrong with the two of them after that?”

  “Well, Male 2028 did rescue her as planned.”

  Drumming his fingers on the desk, Smithers looked expectantly at each of them.

  Marsha and Hershel exchanged wary glances. Finally, Hershel spoke.

  “His mule trampled him to death while they were trying to escape.”

  “How unfortunate. Not altogether surprising, considering you two, but unfortunate nonetheless. So, what became of Female 5923?”

  “It seems she spent the rest of her life hiding in the Caspian Mountains from the Huns, who wanted to execute her for killing Attila.”

  Smithers breathed a heavy sigh.

  “I supposed that’s understandable, given the circumstances.”

  He picked up a second piece of paper. If it were possible, Smithers’s scowl deepened even further.

  “I’m not sure I even want to go into the Middle Ages episode. Why, they didn’t even manage to meet each other that time.”

  Marsha shuddered, the memory of that past life still fresh in her mind.

  “Well, they might have if it hadn’t been for that nasty Black Death thing going around.”

  “Yes, sending him back as a rat catcher during the plague wasn’t the brightest of ideas, was it?”

  Marsha cast her eyes down to her hands clasped tightly in her lap. Hershel tried to look anywhere else but at Smithers.

  Scanning further down the page, Smithers read on.

  “I see while I was on vacation, you two managed to send them back for a third time.”

  “Yes, well, it didn’t seem like it would hurt.”

  “No, at this point I suppose it wouldn’t have hurt… if they had been sent back so they could have been reasonably close in age.”

  Marsha glared at her husband. “That was his fault.”

  Hershel grew pale, small beads of sweat popping out on his shiny bald head.

  “Tell him, Hershel.”

  Hershel cleared his throat and tugged at the edges of his cardigan sweater, trying to regain some composure.

  “Well, you see, they were showing a replay of the Thirty Years War at the Cineplex, and I didn’t want to miss it.”

  “Apparently, that was why you were thirty years late getting Male 2028 to the drop off station?”

  Marsha jumped to Hershel’s defense.

  “At least we got them to meet that time.”

  Smithers rubbed his temples in circles, pressing so hard that Marsha thought he might pop his eyes out of their sockets.

  “Having her nearly run over him with her carriage is hardly what I would call ‘meeting.’ And besides, he was only thirteen, and she was what? Nearly fifty?”

  “Forty-three,” Marsha corrected him. “And age wouldn’t have mattered once he’d grown to manhood.”

  Smithers stopped rubbing and looked at Marsha.

  “Yes, unfortunately she died before that could happen, didn’t she?”

  “How was I supposed to know that the lead in her cosmetics was lethal?”

  “Well, we know that now, don’t we?”

  Smithers clasped his hands together and laid them on top of the papers on his desk.

  “If it were up to me, I’d have you both reassigned to something with less responsibility, such as snowflake design or sand grain inventory. As it is, He wants you both to see this thing through to the end.”

  “He does?” Marsha and Hershel said in unison.

  “Yes, but there is a condition.”

  Marsha was afraid to ask. “What’s that?”

  “You’re both to go on l
ocation.”

  “On location?”

  “Yes, you will return to Earth and personally supervise Male 2028 and Female 5923 to make sure their contract is fulfilled this time.”

  “Go down there?” They looked at each other. Why, the very idea was unheard of. “For how long?”

  “For as long as it takes.” Smithers pointed his finger at them. “Remember, this is your last chance to get this right. For heaven’s sake, these people aren’t cats. They’re not supposed to have nine lives.”

  Posterity, posterity, this is your concern…

  Be attentive.

  Twenty times, since the creation of the sun

  has Vesuvius blazed, never without a horrid

  destruction of those that hesitate to fly.

  This is a warning, that it may never

  seize you unapprised.

  The womb of this mountain is pregnant with

  bitumen, alum, iron, gold, silver, nitre,

  and fountains of water.

  Sooner or later it kindles, and when the sea

  rushes in, will give birth vent…

  If you are wise, hear this speaking stone.

  Neglect your domestic concerns, neglect your

  goods, and chattels, there is no delaying.

  Fly.

  — Anno Domini

  in the reign of Philip IV, Emmanuele Fonseca, Viceroy, 1632

  From a plaque inscribed in Latin and erected in the village of Portici,

  warning its citizens of the evil of Vesuvius

  Chapter 6

  June, 1943

  Pompeii, Italy

  Serafina blew softly on the dirt, effectively puffing away nearly two thousand years of dust and ash from the object hidden beneath. A speck of shiny silver glinted at her in the bright afternoon sun. She held her breath, fighting the urge to dig her hands deep in the dirt and rip the priceless artifact from its earthen tomb.

  Years of study and practice had taught her restraint at times like this, even while the excitement of discovery pounded through her veins.

  She lay prostrate in the dirt with a small pick in one hand and a soft brush in the other and began the arduous task of unearthing her prize one grain of dirt at a time.

  After an hour of backbreaking work, the relic was partially exposed. Serafina inspected what appeared to be a large silver cup still half-buried in the ground. Raised skeletons depicting scenes of celebration covered the exterior. She shifted to allow more sunlight to shine on the cup. Brushing the last layer of dust from its surface revealed an engraved inscription around the rim.

  VIVO DUM VOS HABEO CRASTINUS INCERTUS. Enjoy life while you have it, for tomorrow is uncertain.

  The irony of the words struck Serafina as she traced her finger over the intricate carvings. There had been no tomorrow for the unlucky citizens of Pompeii.

  “Well, well. What have we found here?”

  She didn’t have to look up. Giovanni Ragusa’s deep voice was all too familiar.

  “I should think that would be obvious. It’s a pre-Columbian urinal.”

  She heard him growl behind her. As usual, he did not appreciate her sarcasm.

  He squatted beside her and tried to edge her away with his shoulder.

  “Very funny. Let me see that.”

  Serafina fought the urge to cover the object with her arm like a child hiding a test from a cheating classmate.

  “No, it’s my find. Go dig in your own hole.”

  He sat back on his heels, a look of disdain marring his handsome features.

  “As senior archeologist on this site, this whole damn city is my hole.”

  “I think Signore Moretti would have to disagree with that,” she said, referring to the Director of Excavations.

  “Senior archeologist in charge of this region, then.” Giovanni brushed at the dust on his pants, dust that was ever-present on anyone digging in the ruins. “Which makes me your superior, at least. Now let me see it.”

  Serafina hated when he was right, especially since he never hesitated to point out each and every occasion to her. She slowly stood and stepped back, giving him access to the silver cup.

  Looking down on his dark head, she wondered how she had ever thought he was attractive.

  She took that back. He was handsome—a handsome ass. His good looks and smooth talk had fooled her once, years ago. But she had learned her lesson the hard way, and since then he did nothing but irritate her.

  She watched as he bent to examine the cup. She allowed him this one liberty, but stopped him when he reached to pull it out of the ground.

  “As senior archeologist, you should know procedure by now. The find has to be documented and photographed in place before it’s removed.”

  Giovanni stood, his eyes narrowed to slits as he glared down his hawk-like nose at her.

  “You’re so right. Well, go on, then. Get the camera, and document your find. What’s one small tin cup compared to what I’ve discovered so far?”

  “Only one more that you didn’t find.”

  Serafina turned on her heel and left him standing there.

  How did the man have the ability to get under her skin so? Of course, he had more experience, and as a result, more credited finds, which he never stopped reminding her of. But that was going to change. She would eat dirt before she let him think he was a better archeologist just because he was a man.

  Hurrying to a previously excavated Roman villa now used as a temporary supply building, she grabbed the Brownie camera and a documentation form.

  The excitement of the discovery quickly returned. She had been digging at the Pompeii ruins for three years, and the silver cup was her biggest find so far. Oh, she had done her share of assisting in the excavation of other archeologists’ great finds, but this one was hers. All hers.

  As she returned to her dig site, she saw Giovanni standing over her find with Alfonso Moretti and his assistant, Heberto.

  Apprehension pooled in the pit of her stomach as she approached. The men seemed oblivious to her presence at first. Then Giovanni looked up, an expression of false surprise on his face.

  “Ah, I see you finally showed up with the camera.”

  He snatched the camera from her and prepared to photograph the silver cup.

  “As you can see,” he said to the men as he looked through the viewfinder on the top of the box camera, “from what I’ve unearthed so far, the cup seems to be in perfect condition.”

  Serafina nearly choked.

  “What you’ve unearthed?”

  Giovanni raised his head and turned to her.

  “Sì, although I will have to admit that Signorina Pisano did assist a little with the excavation.”

  “Maledicali! That’s my find, Giovanni, and you know it.”

  She lunged at him, wanting to claw out his eyes, but Heberto grabbed her by the arm before she nearly trampled the silver cup.

  Giovanni shook his head at her.

  “Poor Serafina. I warned Signore Moretti that you might do this.” He turned to the director. “She has been upset lately, since she has yet to make a significant find of her own.”

  She lunged again, nearly breaking free of Heberto’s grip. He held her with the strength of a young man, even though he was old enough to be her grandfather.

  “You son-of-a—”

  “There now.” Moretti patted her shoulder as if he were consoling a child. “You will have your chance to make your own discoveries, Serafina. For now, let Giovanni do his work.”

  “But—”

  “You heard the director,” Giovanni smiled, but his obvious lack of respect for her showed in his eyes. “Why don’t you go find your own little hole to dig in, and leave the serious archeology to men with more experience?”

  She reeled, the impact of her own words thrown back in her face felt like a physical slap.

  How dare he do this to her?

  Heberto turned Serafina and started walking her away.

  “Take heart, little
one. Everything will work out for the best. There are greater things for you to discover. I am certain of it.”

  Serafina barely heard the older man’s kind words. She looked back over her shoulder, unable to believe what had happened.

  Giovanni Ragusa had just stolen her find.

  *

  David Corbin walked up to the main entrance of Pompeii, his heart in his throat.

  So far, so good.

  No one seemed to pay him any attention. With his civilian clothing, black hair, and dark features, he blended in easily with the Italian people on the street. It was one of the reasons he had been hand-picked for this assignment. That, and the fact that he spoke fluent Italian and passable German. They were skills that kept him from the front lines for the time being, much to his war-hero father’s disappointment.

  The old man might be proud of him, if he knew what David was doing and where he was. But he didn’t. No one did, except for David’s unit stationed far away on the coast of Africa.

  Sent to spy on the Germans encamped near Pompeii, he was to find out if the rumors were true that they were hiding munitions within the ruins. It was simple, really. Hire on at the dig site, observe their movements, and report back to headquarters when he located the hidden munitions.

  Simple, as long as he didn’t get shot along the way. Unfortunately, if anyone discovered he was an American on enemy soil, that’s just what might happen.

  His first sight of the ruins surprised him as he walked through the Porta Marina. He wasn’t sure what he had expected. Maybe a group of old men poking around a bunch of rocks with shovels in their hands. Certainly not a complete city with standing buildings and streets. Granted, the buildings had no roofs, and some were missing a wall or two, but it was a city nonetheless.

  Clusters of people milled about, and he picked up bits and pieces of their conversations. Tourists mostly, from what he could tell. A couple from Hungary stood to his right. Off to his left, a large group of Austrians was trying to figure out a map printed in Italian. And, of course, the Germans. Some were civilians, while others were soldiers in uniform strolling among the ruins. Apparently, even a war didn’t stop the tourist trade.

  Spotting one of the tour guides, David asked him where to go to find out about hiring on at the site. The man pointed toward a long, narrow street. The uneven cobblestones led David down an ancient road into the heart of the ruins.