Last Prophecy of Rome

by Iain King

  When they looked to see where the man had been, there was hardly anything to see. Just one limb and half a torso seemed to remain visible. Every other part of him had disintegrated in a mist of tatters and debris which would soon be covered by the desert sands.

  Fifty-Five

  Las Vegas, USA

  Even though Paul Pasgarius the Third had heard nothing more from ‘Constantine’ for well over a week, he guessed the caller would contact him again.

  This time he was ready with special software, so he might have a chance to locate the anonymous voice. After all, if the voice tried to blackmail him again, he guessed his best hope would be to try to blackmail Constantine in return.

  So when his computer flashed that there was another incoming call, again from an ‘Unknown Caller’, he switched on his tracking programme before he answered.

  ‘Paul Pasgarius the Third speaking,’ he said with false confidence, one eye on the location programme as he spoke.

  ‘Good evening, Paul,’ came the voice.

  ‘Constantine – hello,’ replied Paul. ‘I hope you’ve called to report one hundred per cent customer satisfaction.’

  The heavily disguised voice seemed to chuckle a bit. ‘Yes, it worked,’ said Constantine.

  ‘Good,’ said Paul, guessing the voice was more male than female. And whoever it was, they sounded more commanding than they had last time. It was a voice of authority.

  ‘Now there’s one more thing for you to do,’ continued Constantine.

  ‘You can’t blackmail me now,’ said Paul, chewing his gum near the microphone on his headset. ‘Haven’t you seen the news? Half of congress has been doing what I’ve been doing.’

  ‘You’re right, Paul,’ replied Constantine. ‘Which is why this time I’m going to pay you. Cash.’

  Paul hadn’t expected that. He chewed his gum more slowly. Perhaps he was lucky to hear from Constantine again after all.

  ‘What I want you to do, Paul, is help me clean up a few computer trails. There are some tracks which need to be covered.’

  ‘And the cash?’

  ‘I’ll be giving that to you in person.’

  ‘How much?’

  The garbled voice laughed again. ‘You don’t get to ask how much. More than enough is the answer.’

  Paul stared hopelessly at his software programme. It had stopped searching, and simply come up with the answer ‘Source location unknown’. He shook his head, annoyed. ‘Where will I meet you?’ he asked.

  ‘In Rome,’ came Constantine’s answer. Then he commanded, ‘Buy your own air ticket.’

  Fifty-Six

  Western Desert, Iraq

  Myles had been briefed about ‘consumable’ bombs when he was with military intelligence: as deadly as a suicide vest but much harder to detect. Al Qaeda had sent a man with a bomb inside him to assassinate an important Saudi royal in 2009, and he had managed to detonate himself in front of his target. It was just a technical flaw with the bomb which had allowed Prince Mohammed bin Nayef to survive. Now it seemed that Juma had adopted the technology. Worse, the Somali gang leader had made it work effectively.

  Juma was still grinning. ‘It’s good, huh?’

  Myles and the Senator glanced at one another, each inviting the other to speak. The Senator offered the first retort. ‘So good, Juma, I think you ought to try it yourself.’

  ‘Thank you Senator. I’m glad you found it entertaining.’ Juma gave a false laugh as he swaggered around. ‘You know what this place is?’

  ‘Tell me, Mr Juma,’ asked the Senator, his tone making plain that he didn’t care for Juma’s games. ‘What is this place?’

  Juma didn’t answer immediately. Instead he redirected his question towards Myles, feigning an overeducated accent. ‘Mr Oxford Academic, sir. Do you know what this place is?’

  ‘Looks like an abandoned Roman town,’ offered Myles.

  ‘Correct. Well done – you’ve done your reading.’ Juma’s voice was overloaded with sarcasm. ‘Yes,’ he said, talking as much to his men as to Myles. ‘This rubble used to be one of the last outposts of the Roman Empire. The Persians did to this town what I’ll do to America. The Romans had to abandon it. And do you know what they did here?’

  Myles didn’t respond.

  ‘You don’t know, Englishman?’ taunted Juma.

  ‘No, I don’t.’

  ‘The Oxford brainbox doesn’t know? I’ll tell you what the Romans did here,’ said Juma, ambling closer. ‘They kept eunuchs here.’ Juma put his hand on his crotch and jumped around howling. His men all laughed at him, reacting from fear as much as humour.

  Then Juma swung round and grabbed Myles’ crotch. ‘And are you a eunuch? Mr Myles, sir, Mr Munro? Mr Oxford University?’ Juma’s voice had become serious and threatening. He pushed his sweating face into Myles’ and breathed his words at him. ‘Is that why you didn’t “do” my wife? Huh?’ Juma tightened his grip. ‘You couldn’t do it for her?’

  Juma pressed hard. Myles suddenly bent double – he was no eunuch.

  The Somali warlord lifted his knee into Myles’ face, knocking him to the ground. Myles rolled on the desert scrub. His wrists still tied, it was hard for him to recover his balance.

  Then Juma stepped towards the Senator. ‘You won’t go down as easily as him, will you, Senator?’

  Roosevelt was opening his mouth to answer when Juma swung his forearm back, and punched squarely into the Senator’s stomach. The Senator, like Myles before him, bent over. Then Juma pushed him onto the ground too. Roosevelt landed awkwardly on his side.

  Juma stood over them both, watching them writhe and gloating at them. ‘Gentlemen, it seems you both like the floor,’ he teased. ‘The Romans used to teach their gladiators how to die. When a gladiator had suffered a fatal wound, he was expected to drop to his knees then fall to his right. It let spectators know when to look away. Isn’t that thoughtful?’

  Myles and the Senator were recovering, but there were still guns pointed at them. There was no chance of them being able to take Juma by surprise.

  ‘Drag them into the ring,’ Juma ordered to his men. ‘Time for some fun.’

  Myles and the Senator were both grabbed by their bound wrists and pulled across the rough ground. A ridge of stone bumped out of the desert floor. The two men were dragged across it. They were dropped in the middle of a broken circle of old Roman limestone.

  They were in the arena.

  Juma was still feigning a half-laugh. He nodded to one of his men who flicked open a cheap handheld video-recorder. A small red light appeared on the front of the device, which was pointed at Myles and the Senator. Myles noticed Juma’s men had pulled back.

  Slowly Myles started to stand up again. Once on his feet he offered his bound hands to the Senator, helping the frail man to stand beside him.

  The pirate leader giggled in expectation, but it was clear that little was happening. Juma’s men were hoping to watch something violent, but there was no sign of it yet. He called out to the two Westerners, trying to mock them with his sarcasm. ‘Time to fight each other – if you please, gentlemen.’

  But Myles and the Senator refused to perform.

  Juma raised his gun and fired a burst of bullets into the air. ‘Fight!’ He shouted his demand towards both men, but neither had any inclination to obey.

  The Somali warlord was beginning to look powerless in front of his men. He lowered his gun barrel and pulled the trigger again. This time a splattering of metal skimmed off the ground near the Senator’s feet.

  Myles and the Senator recoiled from the noise, but still refused to move.

  The pirate marched over to them. He grabbed each man by the neck and pushed their heads towards his. Then, speaking through his teeth, he said in a quiet but chilling tone: ‘If you’re lucky, I’ll let one of you out of here alive,’ he said. ‘But unless you start fighting each other, I’m going to have to kill you both to keep my men happy. And if you just pretend to fight, or try to fix it so you both surv
ive, then I’ll make sure you both die. Do you understand?’

  Myles and the Senator shared a glance. Just by their exchange of eye contact, it was clear that neither of them had any intention of following through with Juma’s request. No way would they fight each other.

  But Myles also knew how dangerous it would be to disappoint the Somali psychopath.

  Fifty-Seven

  Western Desert, Iraq

  With a sense of ceremony, Juma knocked the two men’s heads together. He was looking as confident as ever: finally, the two men would obey. Then he raised his voice to the sky and shouted as loudly as he could. ‘Fight!’

  As his men started to cheer, Juma eyed Myles and the Senator in turn. His gaze underlined his threat: ‘And if you both survive, then both of you will die.’ He turned his back on the two Westerners and started to walk to the edge of the arena. Myles and the Senator were left isolated in the middle.

  The Senator murmured to Myles. ‘Got any ideas?’

  ‘Only that we’ve got to get out of here.’

  ‘Agreed,’ said the Senator. ‘Then we pretend to fight until we can think of something.’

  Myles nodded.

  As Juma reached the edge of the stone circle, he turned and stared at the two men.

  No one was moving. Then Juma fired another burst of gunfire into the air. ‘Only one of you can leave that ring alive…’

  Finally, Myles and the Senator rammed into each other. Because their hands were tied, as their shoulders collided they both lost their balance. The two men spun down to the ground.

  Juma’s men cheered.

  Myles and the Senator scrabbled around in the dirt. Slowly they began to get back on their feet.

  Myles looked around as he stood up again, keeping his voice down. ‘Could we run into the desert?’

  ‘Not fast enough,’ whispered the Senator. ‘Could we steal some of Juma’s weapons?’

  The men slowly wheeled around, pretending to spar. Really they were scanning all around them, looking for something – anything – which might help them. Myles eyed Juma’s Toyota. ‘His vehicles?’ he suggested. ‘We’d need to distract his men, though.’

  The look on the Senator’s face said he agreed. The old man was recalling his combat experience. Myles could tell he was trying to imagine solutions. There was nothing obvious.

  The two men charged into each other again. They had less energy than before. Again they tumbled to the floor. The audience enjoyed it less the second time. They were running out of time.

  The Senator whispered to Myles while they were in the dust. ‘Juma doesn’t care which one of us comes out of here alive,’ he said. ‘The survivor won’t be ransomed or released. He’ll be killed. Juma wants us both dead.

  Myles nodded: he agreed with the Senator’s analysis.

  As the two men were returning to their feet they were both distracted by a cry from the audience. ‘Fight like you mean it!’ came the call, followed by a laugh. It was Juma’s voice.

  Then the pirate lobbed a bayonet into the ring. Myles had to side-step fast to avoid the falling blade. It landed near the Senator’s feet.

  Myles and the Senator both looked down at the weapon: Juma wanted to speed things up. Whoever picked up the knife would be able to stab the other.

  The Senator bent down and grabbed the handle of the bayonet with his tied hands. But he refused to attack Myles. ‘Our wrists,’ he said.

  As he slowly moved opposite Myles, the Senator spun the blade in his hands until it was pointing towards him. He sawed away at the bindings on his wrists for several seconds. Eventually the wire was severed and fell onto the arena floor.

  The spectators started to whoop as the Senator brought his hands apart. They could see him about to attack Myles, whose wrists were still bound.

  The Senator threw the blade from one hand to the other, catching it easily each time. ‘Run at me,’ he said.

  Suspicion flickered through Myles’ mind. Run at a man holding a knife?

  He hesitated. The Senator repeated himself. ‘Come on, man. Run at me. I’ll drop the knife and you pick it up. Run at me.’ The Senator was holding the knife down, ready to impale Myles as he approached.

  Who was the Senator trying to fool – Juma or Myles?

  Would Sam Roosevelt kill Myles to survive, or drop the knife as he promised?

  The Senator could see Myles was unsure what to do. ‘Myles, you gotta trust me,’ he said. Then he turned on his convincing voice – the perfect all-American accent that had won over millions of voters and almost won the US Presidency. ‘We’re all going bust if we ain’t got trust.’

  Roosevelt was speaking like an old-school politician. A statesman who really cared for more than himself. Something about his manner was convincing.

  Gradually Myles nodded. The Senator braced himself. Then Myles rushed.

  The two men collided. The Senator fell backwards. Pretending to be caught off guard, he let the bayonet fall from his hands.

  Myles quickly rolled on the ground and returned to his feet. He rushed for the bayonet and grabbed it. The Senator barely moved – there was no contest for the weapon. Roosevelt had been true to his word.

  As the old man stood back up, Myles quickly rubbed the blade against the wire on his wrists. He was too clumsy to break through easily. He tried to push harder, but it only meant the knife slipped out of his hands. It fell to the dust. The Senator gave Myles space, allowing him to pick it up and try again. Eventually Myles cut through and, as with the Senator before him, the binding dropped away.

  As the audience saw Myles’ hands were also free they cheered again. The contest had become even more exciting.

  Myles held the weapon while he stood opposite the Senator, both men still circling slowly, pretending to look for a weakness in the other.

  The Senator wiped sweat from his face. He was trying to hide his moving lips. ‘OK. I’ve got a plan.’

  ‘Tell me, Senator.’

  ‘There are rocket-propelled grenades in the back of that vehicle, right?’

  Myles checked behind him to confirm which vehicle the Senator was talking about. ‘Yes. Go on.’

  ‘OK, then you chase me over there. I’ll grab an RPG while you escape. I’ll be able to hold them off long enough.’

  Myles didn’t quite understand what the Senator was proposing. ‘But they’ll kill you. While I’m driving away, they’ll kill you.’

  The Senator gritted his teeth and spoke with his best sarcasm. ‘Son, in case you hadn’t noticed, they’re going to kill us anyway.’

  Then Myles realised: the Senator was offering his life for Myles’.

  Myles gulped, slowly accepting it was the best course of action. He mouthed the words ‘thank you’ to the Senator, who accepted them graciously.

  ‘Just swear to me you’ll bring this guy down.’

  ‘I will, Senator,’ Myles promised.

  Carefully, Myles advanced, pointing the knife towards the Senator, who stepped back. The audience were enthralled.

  Myles walked forward again. Again the Senator withdrew, his face bearing the expression of someone who was prepared to die. The Senator turned to check his bearings. To Juma and the men watching it looked like the glance of a desperate man trying to see how much further he could retreat. But Myles and the Senator both knew he was working out how far he had to run to get to the Toyota Corolla.

  The Senator turned back to face Myles. He knew where he needed to go. Through his eye contact he indicated he was prepared. The Senator controlled his breathing, as if he was gearing up for his last fight. He was ready.

  Myles’ face thanked the Senator again. It was time.

  Then Myles raised the bayonet and started to lurch toward the Senator. Roosevelt turned his back and ran away as fast as he could. Straight towards the vehicle.

  At first the audience cheered. Myles had run the Senator out of the arena. They watched as the Senator jumped over the stone boundary which marked the edge of the decaying
Roman circle. Roosevelt seemed to be fleeing for his life. Close behind was Myles, holding the bayonet firmly in his hand and thrusting it towards the Senator. The old American had been beaten by the young Brit.

  They hollered and whooped.

  Then they started to realise: the two men were not just running out of the arena. They were running towards the vehicles. Their vehicles.

  Myles maintained the pretence of chasing the Senator for as long as he could. The Somalis were checking themselves. Had the Westerners tricked them?

  The Senator just reached the Toyota. Myles was yards behind.

  Then gunfire scattered towards the two men, just missing them and kicking up dust from the desert.

  Myles turned to see Juma’s men running towards him. Most were lowering their AK-47s, ready to fire.

  Juma himself was the only one not moving. He seemed to have been most shocked by Myles’ and the Senator’s trick. ‘Kill them both,’ he called to his men.

  Myles ducked into the cabin of the vehicle as fast as he could. Keys were dangling from the ignition. Myles fumbled with them before he managed to turn them. The Toyota’s engine whirred into action.

  He was about to crank the gearbox when the windscreen was shot through and shattered in front of him. Myles had to shield his eyes as glass exploded all around him.

  Then a single word cut through the noise. ‘Juma.’ It was the Senator’s voice.

  Myles turned to see the old man standing behind the rear wheels of the Corolla. Roosevelt was holding a rocket-propelled grenade to his shoulder.

  Juma’s men paused. The pirate who had been firing at the windscreen relaxed his trigger hand and looked uncertain. Most of the others just stood still. They were waiting to see what the Senator did with his weapon, or whether Juma would renew the order to attack.

  The Senator called over the chaos. ‘Let’s talk this through, Juma,’ he said.