by Scott Baker
‘When Giovanni sees this …’ murmured Alberto. ‘It is more than even he imagined, I’m sure.’
David didn’t know who Alberto was talking about, but took a mental note of the name.
Alberto stared at the picture unfolding before his eyes and could almost feel the wind on his face. They were in a boat, heading for what looked like an island. It was night. The only sounds were the lapping of the water and the quiet breathing of several men. David turned his head, thinking that someone sitting directly behind him had whispered, but all he saw was the couple at table three immersed in conversation. He could not believe the quality of the sound. He didn’t even know this level of immersion was possible. He stared back at the screen.
A hand wearing an intricately carved gold ring reached forward from the bottom of the screen and rested on the shoulder of the man who was rowing. Something was said in French, but David didn’t understand. Then a voice came through loud and clear in English.
‘This man is Jean-Paul.’ The man rowing turned and nodded his head. The American accent continued, ‘He will take the device should anything happen to me. He knows the hide location.’
The voice whispered something harshly as a rifle crack was heard in the distance. The image showed the bow of the boat sliding up on an area of sand no more than six feet wide. It was the smallest of alcoves in the vertical rock wall. The point of view swung around as the man filming the scene jumped from the boat. Another two men jumped out. There were four in total, including Jean-Paul and the man who spoke.
‘We have arrived at the prison island of Elba. The courage of these three men should not go unrecorded: Jean-Paul Luvié, Benoit Fontéyne and François Buviour.’ The image scanned across the faces of each of the men as he spoke their names. They looked straight into the camera, straight out at David and Alberto. The detail was unbelievable. Every pore was evident.
‘These men have risked their lives for our cause, and should I not survive they have instructions on what to do. It begins now. Jean-Paul shall wear the unit.’
The image cut again and showed the men ascending what appeared to be a rope ladder. Their dialogue was French, spoken in hushed commands.
The picture followed the men sneaking up and over a wall, and then peering from a vantage point onto a grassed courtyard. Three guards in white pants and red coats could be seen. The cameraman ducked behind the stone wall once again, then turned to a new face. This man had a modern-day American accent and as his face came forward into full view, Alberto gasped, biting his fist. ‘My God! Alex!’
The same voice heard earlier spoke. ‘Tell Strickland I owe him a beer, he really is a genius,’ the man winked. With that he turned and leaped over the wall, silently, speedily. The camera looked on as the man disposed of the three guards with incredible efficiency.
The images became mixed as the filming stopped and started. Running, hiding, fighting. All close-quarters combat, the likes of which would have made Jackie Chan proud. This man, Alex, displayed skills David had never seen, made all the more intense by the imagery and sounds that totally immersed the two men watching.
Then the men were inside, heading down a dimly lit stairwell that eventually levelled out. They came into a long corridor. Along the left wall were iron doors. Along the right, the rock was jagged and the wall uneven, carved from the natural stone rather than built of manmade blocks.
Only two men could be seen now: the American called Alex and one of the Frenchmen. They trod carefully on a crude, rock-covered floor, their torchlight glistening off the slippery surface underfoot.
After two or three minutes, the men stopped. Jean-Paul, from whose point of view David and Alberto were now experiencing the scene, continued up to an iron door. It was solid, and only a small eye-height flap broke the continuity of the steel. A hand reached out and slid the grille flap to one side. The camera moved closer to peer through the bars.
Perhaps it was pride, perhaps the indignation or perhaps the contempt felt for his captors, but the man inside did not respond to the sound of the grille opening. He sat with his back to the wall on the far side of the cell. There was no window, and the only light streamed in from what appeared to be a thin horizontal vent high on the cell wall. The man was small. He had dark hair and a hooked aristocratic nose. He stared straight ahead, as if he were seeing something in the blackness before him. It was the French greeting that caused him to look up.
‘Salutations, mon seigneur.’ Very slowly the man tilted his head.
‘When did the English start educating their jailers?’ His tone was mocking, yet curious.
‘My lord, I will ask you a question to which I need your honest reply. If we release you from this prison this night, and return you to France, will you agree to answer our questions?’
‘If you release me from this prison this night, and return me to France, I will grant you the kingdom of Belgium. Tell me, who sits on the throne in Paris?’ the man said as he rose to his feet, moving easily with his eyes accustomed to the darkness.
‘The Congress of Vienna has fully ratified the notion of monarchy in Europe, and has distilled any remnants of democracy. They have installed Louis the eighteenth as king.’
The man in the cell walked towards the door. He was not a tall man, but something about him made him seem large. He had, even in the dim prison cell, true presence. He stood with pride and looked down his nose at the pair of eyes he could see through the six-inch grille in the door.
‘Brother of Louis the sixteenth? That coward?’ the man asked, shocked.
‘Monsieur Bonaparte, you must come with us quickly.’ There were sounds of English voices and yells as the camera swung away to the left. Suddenly the image changed. Hands extended down around the throat of a red-coated man. The English guard struggled for breath, but it was in vain. They were outside, and the grass was wet, glistening in the moonlight. David watched the life leave the man’s eyes. The camera moved again to show the man called Alex displaying incredible martial skill in disabling three more red-coats efficiently.
But one of the Frenchmen was struck. He lay in the wet grass, his body lifeless, his mouth wide. Hiding behind a nearby wall, the prisoner, Napoleon Bonaparte, waited for Alex to dispatch his English attackers.
Within moments, the image jolted sideways and cut to black. They waited.
Black. Waiting. Nothing. Black.
Finally, text appeared on the screen, ‘END DATA STREAM’, and this was soon replaced by, ‘HELLO, WELCOME TO THE LOVE SHACK’.
Gunshot.
CHAPTER 17
The truck came to a stop for the first time in more than twenty minutes. As the traffic light glowed red, Shaun rolled off his metal perch and dropped onto the road. The light flashed green and the truck moved on, leaving its stowaway on the road facing the night sky. There were no other cars around.
Shaun slowly, painfully got up and surveyed his surroundings. The effort of holding his weight on the truck’s underside had drained him. He needed to move, but more than that, he needed to sleep.
He was on a bridge, and he saw a large cement canal twenty feet below. He stumbled to where the overpass ended and jumped the fence. He half-slid, half-ran down the long concrete slope to the shadowy cavern below. Somewhere safe to hole up.
The place reminded him of when he was a kid and had seen the car race in the movie Grease. Then as he reached the bottom and looked back up his brain chimed in.
No. More like The Terminator.
Any second he expected to see a truck smash through the railings of the overpass and come careering towards him in its relentless pursuit, but it didn’t happen. It started to rain, but Shaun walked rather than ran to the shelter. He was sick of running, and all things considered he didn’t mind the cool drops hitting his face.
He sank down against the concrete and pulled his knees to his chest. He didn’t know where he was, only that he was being hunted. He only had a half-reasoned plan to make it right, for Lauren. He didn’t want h
er death to be in vain.
He pulled the thick book from his jacket and quickly found his place. He sighed, using his palm to wipe the water from his eyes, and by the dim yellow streetlight he started to read.
CHAPTER 18
When I woke, I was blindfolded. My hands were bound behind my back and an acrid smell filled my nose and mouth. The ground was cold and stone. I lay still on my side and the air was silent. I tried to call saliva into my throat, but there was none. It was cracked and raw, and I was hungry. I strained with all my senses to paint a mental picture of my surroundings.
I rolled clumsily up to my knees and swayed from the effort. I was weak from hunger. I had no sense of how much time had passed; no idea how long I’d been out, which was why the next voice I heard was so helpful.
‘You’re awake.’ It was a deep, short voice. The owner spoke Roman, but it was clearly not his native tongue. I tried to reply, but my mouth was too dry to speak. I coughed up phlegm and blood and my chest burned from it.
‘Easy,’ came the voice again. ‘You’ve been lying there for two days now. I thought you were dead. It is good that you are not.’
I had to agree with him.
‘I would help remove your blindfold, but I am chained to a wall,’ he said, the rattle of his chains giving testament to his words. I again tried to call moisture into my throat, but I could not.
‘You cannot speak because you have been breathing their smoke for many days; it keeps you asleep. I have been awake now for three days and wish I could go back to sleep.’
Again I tried, and again nothing.
‘Do not worry. Your voice will return in time. Let me tell you what I know, to save you asking the same questions the last two did.’ There was no malice in the voice, but a genuine frankness that comforted me.
‘You are in a Roman dungeon,’ he began. ‘You are a prisoner. Your reasons are your own, although I suspect that you committed the simple crime of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.’
Chains rattled as the speaker adjusted his position. ‘My name is Malbool. I am from Africa, many months’ travel from here.’ The deep-voiced man paused and then said, ‘It has been seven years since I was taken from my tribe. Here I was forced to become a slave, but unlike many slaves my master educated me and taught me to speak the Roman tongue. Then he got in trouble with the Roman guard and I found myself here.’
He finished as if that were his story and there was nothing left to say. Again I sought command of my voice, and this time it gave a rasp.
‘Where … is … here?’
‘My friend,’ Malbool laughed, ‘welcome to the great city of Rome.’
Rome, the centre of the world. I had learned much about it during my short stay in Chorazin, and I could not quite believe that I was here.
I remained blindfolded for the next two days, but my hands were unbound some time during my sleep. I was still tied around my upper arms. I was fed, but not spoken to, and after several meals I was able to speak. I too was chained: a thick iron band securely fastened around my ankle, with a short chain to the dank prison wall.
Malbool was taken out of my cell after the first night, and to the best of my knowledge I was alone. I believed I was going to die. I used the time to think, focusing on what Mishca had said about rediscovering my identity.
I considered what I knew about myself. I spoke at least two languages, but I had only found that out by chance. I wouldn’t know if I could speak more unless I was tested. I woke up in the land of Palestine, but I did not look like a typical Israelite. I had physical strength and fighting skills. I did not know how or why I had these skills, but clearly I had been trained. Finally, I now found myself arrested by the great Roman army. Why did they want me?
I had been imprisoned for four days and nights when I received an answer. I was half-crouched next to the wall when I heard the familiar sounds of the feet descending the stairs. The prison door was opened and, still blindfolded, I was yanked roughly to my feet, while another set of hands unshackled the chain around my ankle.
Four rough hands half-led, half-dragged me up the stairs and I was lifted into some sort of carriage. I felt the thing lurch as I landed, and again as the two heavy men climbed in after me, filling the space with the thick stench of sweat. Without vision, and with my upper arms bound, I could only lie helplessly where they had thrown me.
The journey ended about a half hour later as I was pulled from the carriage and made to stand, my captors’ arms again gripping me. I heard footsteps, then voices.
‘This one as you have commanded, my lord,’ a gruff voice announced.
‘By Mars! Are you trying to kill him before he can be of any use? Remove his blindfold and bindings. You’re not going to go anywhere, are you, friend?’ The question was directed at me.
Almost at once, the cords fell away from my arms, cut by a cold blade I felt against my skin. My blindfold was ripped away harshly, and although my eyes remained closed, the light hurt my head. Very slowly I opened my eyes.
‘Now, what is your name?’ the second voice, the one who had commanded my release, asked with authority. Everything was white. Everything was blurred. My eyes watered and I stared around at the coloured blobs in front of me.
‘My name is Saul.’ It had been more than a day since I had used my voicebox and the sound that came out wasn’t my own.
‘My name is Saul,’ I repeated more firmly.
‘Saul?’ the voice asked questioningly. ‘Saul. It does have a ring to it. And I am Tiberius. So, they tell me you like to fight, Saul.’
‘I do not like to fight,’ I said, struggling to focus, but unable to do so through the tears.
‘Really? That’s not what Marcus tells me.’
‘I do not know a man called Marcus,’ I replied honestly.
‘You don’t? Oh, I wouldn’t say you know each other in the sense you might drink wine together, but you have met him.’
I remained silent.
‘You have caused Marcus a deal of trouble. You see, he told me you wounded him and killed several of his guards.’
The penny dropped.
‘I defended a boy who was being beaten and dragged from his family. I have no interest in Roman affairs.’
‘Oh, but you do. It’s the way you defended your little friend that caught Marcus’s attention. You see, he and I have a little arrangement. He finds me talent and I reward his hard work with silver. After all, he can only make so much money on a soldier’s wage. We both benefit.’
I remained silent, not sure where this was all going.
‘Saul, I have a business proposition for you.’
‘I decline.’
‘I’m afraid you don’t have that option,’ the voice continued offhandedly. ‘Now, I am a businessman, but we all have our vices. Mine just happens to be making money. The way I do that varies, but one of my favourite ways is on the games. Do you know about the games Saul?’
‘I have heard of them,’ I replied cautiously.
‘You have? Excellent. I must say, when Marcus told me how you dispatched so many of his guards so easily, I was expecting someone eight feet tall. You’re at least a foot short of that, aren’t you? Well maybe a foot-and-a-half,’ he laughed flippantly.
‘Let me tell you about the games. They are the lifeblood of Rome. They are held weekly and pit the strength and skill of men from all over the known world against each other – and against the occasional lion,’ he added. ‘I have become a wealthy man by waging on the outcome of particular matches, and owning several successful warriors. But right now I’m in a bit of a predicament,’ he continued in a leisurely manner. ‘My hero, Spinicus, was going to fight the champion of the western region next week. Unfortunately, he was killed in a preliminary match six days ago, and none of my other warriors stand a chance.’
‘I will not fight for you,’ I said flatly. His features were coming into view. The tanned, indulged face smiled broadly.
‘Oh, come now. Saul, is it
? Yes, Saul, you see, you will be put in the arena. If you do not fight you will be killed and I will have to find some other wild animal to take Spinicus’s place.’
‘Then I shall die.’ It could not have been much worse than living as a blindfolded, shackled prisoner.
‘Now, now, don’t be hasty. There is something in it for you as well. The training will be hard, yes, but you have a chance to win yourself many rewards: women, good food, perhaps freedom.’
My ears pricked up at this. I looked over his still-blurry form. He wore a long robe or cape of some sort and paced slowly. Behind him was a long cushioned chair, which I suspected he spent most of his days lounging in.
‘Yes, you like the idea of that, don’t you? To be free. That’s what they all fight for. But I tell you, if you fight well for me, you’ll live well. You can have decent accommodation and my good graces simply by continuing to win. Of course, you only get one chance to lose as that usually involves losing your head in some way.’ He chuckled again.
‘So, my proposition is this. You fight for me, you win for me, and your life will be tolerable, even comfortable. You refuse to fight, or lose, and your life will be over.’
I looked around the room, which had come into focus gradually as my eyes stopped watering. It was large, opening to the sunset. I knew it was nearly night-time, but it still seemed incredibly bright as the red and orange rays reached into the room. There were rows of columns down the length of the room, and its expanse was dotted with large white statues of draped figures.
This man, Tiberius, stood squarely on a stage. He was chubby and balding, still smiling. He wore long purple robes over a white toga, and although I was new to Rome, I knew enough to know that purple was the colour of royalty. This was the last thing I saw before someone standing behind me roughly blindfolded me again. I thought about fighting right then and there, but I was too weak, and I decided to bide my time.
