Valerius covered his mouth, his heartbreaking at the muffled cries from under the rubble as those unfortunate enough not to die in the initial crush slowly had their lives drained away in agony, their fates sealed not only by the impossible immovable mass, but the horror befalling the entire city.
“Come, master!”
It was Costa who had grabbed him, and continued to hold him, apparently still not trusting that he wouldn’t throw himself into the fray in a futile attempt to save his men. He patted the hand of his trusted servant then turned to see who remained. There were few. Plinius was in the doorway, urging him with a wave to follow him as he pushed the soldiers that had survived through the door. Valerius looked up and saw cracks rapidly spreading out across the ceiling like fracturing ice on a pond, and leapt into action, rushing toward the door.
“Every one out, now!” he yelled, pushing Plinius through the door and whipping Costa after him. A female slave huddled nearby, screaming as the rest of the ceiling began to crumble. “Let’s go!” yelled Valerius, but she shook her head, too terrified.
He swiftly covered the half dozen paces between them, grabbing her by the arm and yanking her into the air, tossing her over his shoulder as he spun around toward the door. Her screams weakened as he pushed toward the door, then stopped as he felt her go limp, fainting at whatever it was she had seen. He stole a glance behind him as he crossed the threshold and emerged from what was once his home, the remaining structure crumpling in on itself, the archway he had just cleared remaining standing, his emergence punctuated with a blast of dust that momentarily obscured everything. As the dust cleared, only to be replaced by the sight of the thick, falling ash of their new reality, he gasped at the horror he had tried to avoid all morning.
It was the end of times, prophesized for as far back as time went.
He handed the young slave over to one of the soldiers and approached Plinius who was surveying the damage, coughing hard into his robe.
“What are your orders, my lord?”
His lord, master and friend of so many years dropped to one knee, hunched over as he continued to hack, his shoulders heaving with the effort.
“Water!” ordered Valerius, and a soldier rushed over with a skin, handing it to Valerius who then pressed it to Plinius’ lips, squeezing the precious fluid out. Plinius took several gulps, his cough subsiding slightly, but as Valerius knelt beside him, he could hear the wheezing of strained breaths, and one glance at his Prefect had him convinced his mentor wasn’t going to survive unless they escaped immediately.
Plinius reached up and gripped Valerius’ arm, pulling him so his ear was near the man’s mouth.
“Forget me. Save the gold.”
Valerius shook his head, placing his own mouth at his liege’s ear.
“I shall save both, my lord.” He rose to his feet, pointing toward the water. “Make for the boats!”
Suddenly a strong wind swept down the hillside and toward the bay, momentarily clearing the ash from their view, replacing it with the stench of rotting eggs, and as Valerius tried to pull his master to his feet, he realized the air had spoiled, and he was weakening.
He dropped to his knees, grabbing Plinius by the face.
“My lord, Plinius, please! You must try!”
Around him soldiers began to drop with groans as they were overwhelmed by the sulfur, others who had immediately heeded his orders were running toward the boats, clearly visible now that the ash had been cleared by the deadly wind. He looked into Plinius’ eyes, and his heart sank.
There was barely any life there.
His liege’s breaths were mere gasps now, shallow, far apart. His mentor of almost his entire adult life looked up at him, their eyes meeting, and in one last gasp, he issued his final order.
“Leave me.”
Valerius’ heart demanded he pick up his liege and carry him to the boats, but his head knew it would mean his own death as well. His lungs were screaming for relief as he held his breath. He touched his head to that of his friend for a moment, then pushed himself to his feet, wading through the thick ash toward the shore.
One of the boats, its hull low in the water, weighed down by its precious cargo, had already turned, the wind gripping its sails and pulling them away from the shore. Plinius’ cutter sat nearly on its side, the tide low, its hull covered in a massive amount of ash and its sails burned, leaving it useless.
Only one ship remained now, and as he hit the thick mud that was now the shore, the ash and water having created a mix as thick as that used by masons, he pushed through as he saw others being pulled aboard by the crew.
He gasped, finally letting go his breath and sucked in what might be his final lungsful should it prove deadly. Thankfully he felt the sweet relief of air filling his lungs, providing him with the energy to continue on, the stench still there, but not as strong as it was at the house.
The ground shook with a jolt so strong it was if he had been racing in a chariot and suddenly hit a wall. He flew through the air, toward the boat, but landed face first in the mud, his breath knocked out of him. He struggled to get up, but couldn’t, the weight of the water and mud, combined with the suction power of the mixture held him tightly in place, and as he felt his life drain from him, his only thoughts were of his wife and children, and the comfort it provided him to know they had escaped this tragedy the night before.
His name would live on, and they would be protected, he dying a hero of the Empire.
Tekezé River, Eritrea
Present Day, One day before the crash
Acton tossed the last of the gold bars to Laura then crawled out into the glaring midday sun. Laid out on a table were dozens of artifacts he had found during the final clear-out of the gold. They had already been moved by the front loaders so there was no point in trying to catalog them in place other than to take photos with his phone before carefully removing each piece. It had delayed the gold extraction each time, but not by much. With Dawson and Niner’s “on-their-feet” thinking from this morning, they were now way ahead of schedule with respect to the gold.
Which meant they were leaving very shortly, the Eritreans wanting all of the foreigners out with the gold, the excuse being they wanted to diffuse the situation with the Ethiopians. Acton knew very well that the Eritreans had no interest in preserving the archeological find so had taken the opportunity to preserve what he could while Laura had managed to negotiate an extra half day. Dawson had arranged a Black Hawk to deliver them to the Eritrean capital of Asmara at the same time the convoy of gold would arrive.
The Eritreans had reluctantly agreed.
“Look at this,” said Acton as he took out a pocket knife and scratched away a bit of the surface of one of the broken pieces of wood that had been part of the hull. A layer of hard black sat in the palm of his hand. Laura pinched some of it between her fingers, rubbing them together.
“What do you make of it?” she asked. “It almost seems like soot.”
“And look, below the surface is fresh wood.”
Laura and Acton both looked at each other at the same time, smiles and eyes wide. “Like it was burned!” they cried in unison.
“What have you kids found?” asked Niner who was within earshot.
Acton held up the piece of wood. “It looks like the entire outer hull was exposed to severe heat, but just for a few seconds, perhaps tens of seconds, that scorched the surface, but didn’t ignite the wood.”
“Ancient Roman nuclear blast?” asked Niner with a smile as he took the piece of wood and examined it.
“Nope. Volcanic eruption? Definite maybe.”
“Wouldn’t that torch the whole boat though?”
“Not necessarily,” replied Laura. “A study of Pompeii leads scientists to believe that a superheated blast of air engulfed the entire area then when the oxygen was consumed, rushed back. It killed anything that was alive out to more than ten kilometers, but the farther out, the lower the temperature, to the point where if you were far enough, wood
wouldn’t ignite.”
Niner handed the piece of wood back. “Fahrenheit 451?”
Acton took it, returning it to the table. “Exactly. The boat was probably far enough out to only get scorched. The crew would have been killed, but the boat would have survived, and the scorching it received would have actually helped seal the wood, preserving it for all these years.”
“So it looks like your theory is right, Doc. Congrats!”
“Thanks.” Acton sighed, turning to face the wreck. “It’s just too bad this won’t get properly excavated. There’s so much history here.”
“Well, you’ve got twelve hours. Would an extra pair of hands help?”
“Make that two extra pairs,” said Dawson as he approached. “They won’t give me a gun, so I have to do something with my hands,” he said with a smile as he wiggled his fingers.
Acton looked at Laura. “What do you think?”
She shrugged. “A quick and dirty excavation is better than none at all. This site will be looted the moment the troops leave.”
Acton’s lips pursed. “You’re right. Let’s do it!”
Acton was fairly certain the interior of the boat was empty, it having been raked clean to find every last gold bar, so the order of the day was to remove the sand from around the vessel so they could gain access to the deck. Rakes and shovels were commandeered and the four of them were soon attacking the mounds of sand, the others who remained beginning to gather around and watch them, then eventually joining in. Within half an hour almost two dozen of the UN personnel and others gathered were working in teams, removing the dirt under the supervision of the two experience archeologists.
It took hours of backbreaking work before a triumphant shout was heard from the female Chinese observer Acton had learned was named Lee Fang. “I think I found the deck!”
Acton and Laura both scrambled up the slope to the left of the boat and carefully approached her position. The shape of the exposed vessel indicated it was resting partially on its side, at about a forty-five degree angle, and the flat area now exposed by Lee’s efforts seemed to suggest she had indeed found the deck.
“Excellent work!” cried Laura as she examined the decking. “It seems solid, but we’ll have to be careful.” She pointed to the embankment where the unexposed side of the boat was still buried. “I suggest we start moving the dirt from there. It will reduce the weight on the deck and hopefully reduce the risk of it collapsing. But be careful. Listen for any sounds of wood creaking or cracking. If you hear anything, stop what you’re doing and yell ‘Halt!’ so we can listen. If you feel it shifting, get your butts out of there. The safest bet is to the left or right rather than over the top.”
“Agreed,” said Acton. He looked at his watch. “And though time is of the essence, remember that this is where you’re probably going to start finding things, so if you feel something under your rake or shovel, call one of us over, okay?”
There were nods of agreement then Lee sunk her shovel back into the sand, the eagerness on her face reminding Acton of one of his students discovering the thrill that was archeology. In fact, the expressions on everyone’s face had his stomach fluttering with a renewed faith in the human spirit as strangers toiled together in a thankless pursuit, dozens of people from around the world, friends and enemies, working toward the common goal of preserving a piece of history that until six weeks ago, the world had no idea existed.
It was a feeling he wouldn’t trade for the world.
“I found something!” yelled Reese who had joined in only recently. She was jumping up and down, pointing at something and as Acton approached, he could see why she was excited.
A skeletal hand hung over the edge of the deck rail, the arm and possibly the rest of the body still buried.
Reese was still jumping up and down when Acton felt everything shift.
“Freeze!” he yelled.
A look of horror spread across Reese’s face as she landed one last time on the sand she had forgotten was sitting atop an empty hold of an ancient ship built with wood cut two thousand years ago.
Everyone stopped what they were doing and Acton could hear a creaking sound coming from underneath. He looked about and saw about a dozen people in immediate danger. Four were near the edge of the embankment with the most risk of being buried under several tons of sand should everything collapse. He pointed at them. “You four, very carefully, climb down over there,” he said, pointing to the left where they’d be able to escape down the side.
Another creak and this time he heard a slight snap.
He turned his attention to the other six still on the surface of the deck, one of whom was Laura. “You six, one at a time, head to the edge then down the slope. If you hear me yell, you all run as fast as you can and don’t look back.”
There were nervous nods as the first, the male Chinese observer, ever so gently stepped to the edge then slid down the slope, the rest slowly following, Laura taking up the rear.
Another creak and a definite snap.
Reese yelped, the confident woman Acton had seen for the past two days replaced by someone terrified at their current predicament. He found it slightly ironic that under heavy gunfire she had seemed calm and in command, but here, in the midst of the unknown, where she was out of her element, basic instinct had taken over and he could tell she was fighting the urge to flee.
He reached out to her, trying not to shift his bodyweight any more than necessary. “Take my hand,” he said, calmly, trying to quiet her nerves. She reached out and he felt a sweaty palm as he closed his hand around hers. “I’ve got you.” His voice was as reassuring as he could make it, his own heart slamming into his chest as creaks and groans from the boat began to echo all around them. “Now turn to face the rear of the boat, the left side of the embankment.”
Reese nodded, slowly turning, her left hand grabbing his hand as soon as it could, for a few moments both gripping him tightly.
“James, it’s collapsing!”
His head darted to look to where Laura’s voice had come from and he found her pointing at the embankment. As if on a pivot his head swung and he saw the entire side beginning to ripple down toward the deck as the structure shifted below them again.
If only we had had the proper bracing available.
It had been a gamble, and it had initially paid off, but now, as he grabbed Reese by the hand and yanked her hard, dragging her toward the edge, he realized they had made a big mistake. His legs pumped against the wood and then the sand as the entire deck began to give way, the jumping up and down of one excited amateur finally triggering the end-of-life for this ancient marine vessel.
He felt the deck give way completely and he hurled Reese with all his might toward the edge, letting go of her hand as he dropped. His feet hit something hard and he allowed his knees to flex then he pushed upward, springing toward the daylight and the beach as darkness rushed toward him. His acrobatics however failed, and he found himself hitting the ground hard, a piece of wood digging into his side as sand quickly began to bury him.
Scrambling on his knees and elbows, he struggled forward then saw the faces of Dawson and Niner as they rushed in, Dawson leaping forward, grabbing Acton by both wrists, his grip viselike. As the dirt enveloped him, he saw Niner grab Dawson’s legs, then nothing as he took one final gasp of oxygen before he was completely buried.
His eyes were squeezed shut, his lips pressed tightly together, his lungs screaming for air as hundreds of pounds of dirt crushed him, the pressure increasing as more of the embankment slid down to entomb what it had once hid.
But the grip on his wrists never wavered.
He realized Dawson’s head would only be inches from his own and that he too must be buried, but he felt a tug and he tightened his grip even more.
Another tug and this time he felt his body stretch out.
And another, this time he swore he moved forward, albeit an inch if he were lucky.
Another inch.
; A few more.
His lungs were screaming for relief now and he could see spots dancing on the back of his eyelids. He focused on the grip. It never wavered, it never relaxed, and with each tug he could feel himself inching toward rescue.
Suddenly he felt himself surge forward, his chest ripping across something hard, probably wood, and he cried out in pain, the last of his air erupting from his mouth, and just as he was about to suck in the surrounding dirt, he felt the coolness of fresh air, his eyelids suddenly bright.
He gasped, fresh oxygen flooding his system, mixed with a healthy dose of dirt causing him to cough as his rescuers continued to pull him out. His eyes were still closed and he felt someone haul him to his feet as he continued to cough. Water poured over his face and he reached out for the source, feeling a plastic bottle shoved in his hand.
“Drink,” he heard Laura say, her voice wavering slightly with emotion. He said nothing, instead taking a large swig, swishing it around his mouth then spitting it out.
“Hey!” came Niner’s voice from below him. Acton wiped his face with his hand then opened his eyes to find Niner lying on his back, gasping for air, a large wet spot on his black Immortal Freedom Fighter t-shirt, its single stylized word, Immortal, somehow perfectly suiting the Delta operator. To Niner’s left was Dawson, on his knees, being attended to by the Chinese observers.
“Reese?” gasped Acton, the words caught in his throat as he wretched out a clump of sand, his airway finally completely cleared.
“She’s okay,” said Laura, her hands brushing off the dirt. “Oh my God, you’re bleeding!”
Acton looked down and could see his shirt was ripped open, blood pouring down his chest. It looked worse than it felt, and for a moment he thought he might be in shock, then he realized what must be happening. He poured the rest of the water over his chest, washing away most of the blood, leaving a few minor cuts and a bad bit of “hull rash” that would leave a mark for a while.
“I think I’ll live,” he said, his voice still hoarse. He saw Reese quickly walking toward him, a look of relief on her face, she appearing none the worse for wear.
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