Tuscany

by Matthew Thayer

  “Give me four days,” he said, slumping down to sit on a fur corner. “We have six days to the full moon, until Christmas. The closer it gets, the more preoccupied Lorenzo will be. It will be easier to trip him up.”

  Jones ducked low in front of Bolzano so the Italian could read his lips.

  “What’s the end game, Sal? As you see it? We pull you and your people outta there and let Martinelli continue on his merry way?”

  I expected a defiant pronouncement, “he must die,” or “he’ll pay for what he did to me,” but the Italian hung his head as he replied in a gentle voice.

  “He is rather like a rabid dog, is he not? One you obviously feel must be put down. If I may be so bold to ask, Corporal Jones, how many animals have you slain in the past six months?”

  “Don’t know, maybe a hundred or two. Mouths to feed.”

  Bolzano held out his fleshy, soft hands with pink palms up. Free of calluses, no black half moons under the nails, they seemed alien in this rough-and-tumble world.

  “Not counting mosquitoes, my total pales in comparison. Four trout. That is how many creatures I have conquered. And I still feel bad about it. I have only made one fire.

  “In Milano, I had a friend who insisted we were insane to lift our weights and run our laps. ‘Muscles are only good for two things,’ he would say. ‘Fighting and lifting things. I don’t do either one.’ And now to my surprise, I too walk placidly amid the chaos.”

  Jones grabbed Bolzano by the shoulder, pinching down to curb the corpulent Italian’s efforts to shrug free.

  “Martinelli’s gotta go! You got that?”

  “Yes, I suppose it is true, but it won’t be easy. I fear one or all of us will die in the process.”

  When his shoulder was released, Bolzano pouted as he spun a quick tale about Martinelli’s employment history as both assassin and body guard.

  He stressed, repeatedly, that the sergeant’s paranoia and strict attention to detail make him impossible to surprise. As he rambled on about Lorenzo’s “Saints” and “inner circle,” Jones once again squatted low to interrupt.

  “You told us this before. Look into my eyes. Lorenzo don’t scare me.”

  “He is watching for you. Word has trickled in for weeks, ‘Leonglauix is on our trail.’ The gossipmongers claim the great storyteller is traveling in the company of two powerful strangers and a beautiful woman. Those were the rumors. Trust me, you will be hard-pressed to get within two kilometers without him knowing.”

  “Sounds like bullshit to me.”

  “Meet me in four days. You will pass a waterfall as you descend the trail to Nice. It will be on your left as you first begin to see the seaside campsites in the distance. Follow the narrow path below the falls to a bench some kind soul took the time to build. I’ll either meet you there or send a messenger.

  “Doctor, you say you visited Nice before the jump. Surprisingly, it looks very much the same. The long stone beach, the hill, the narrow bay. In the event of an emergency, if you need to contact me, you cannot miss my tent, it is the biggest one in Old Town, which is now just a lightly forested field below Castle Hill. My half of the tent faces the sea. I share it with one of Lorenzo’s witches. Esther. She’s absolutely loyal to him. I suggest you refrain from visiting unless it is most urgent.”

  As we made our goodbyes, Sal grew weepy and insisted on grabbing us tightly and declaring he “loved” us. Paul’s a hugger, he’s got that Hawaiian heart. He clapped the corporal on the back, told him everything will be OK, we’d see him soon. Jones stood there like a tree, indifferent to the emotional display. Gray Beard was on guard duty, digesting all the bad news while he kept an eye on the Tattoos, so we missed the chance to see how he would have responded. My guess, he probably would have used his spear to hold the chubby Italian at bay. Outward affection and warm embraces are not his thing.

  Bolzano saved me for last, gathering me in his arms and whispering, “It feels so good to converse with someone who understands scientific thought. I cannot wait to show you my reports. You will see. I have been busy.”

  I was shocked by how soft he was. Pudding. My arms could not wrap all the way around his midsection. I stood on my tiptoes and felt like a little girl hugging one of my rotund Portuguese aunts. When we parted, I told him I looked forward to reviewing his work. That brought a flash of white teeth, his first real smile of the day.

  In all honesty, I too enjoyed the brief time we spent discussing our studies. It was refreshing to speak with a peer in the language of science. He claims to have performed dissections of Neanderthal and to have kept precise notes on observations ranging from the hunting styles of Cro-Magnon to odd insects of the Pleistocene.

  We were discussing the temperament of Gray Beard’s dog when we found our independent studies have reached the same conclusion. Canines of this era have not yet developed the traits which will one day make the species “man’s best friend.” While the boys insist the dogs are just “stupid,” Bolzano and I disagree. We feel they are naturally less attuned to human needs. In plain language, modern dogs will be hardwired to please their masters, while these mutts just don’t give a rip. Their value is in carrying packs and using their heightened senses to sound the alarm when danger approaches.

  He was more interested in detailing his work than listening to what I have accomplished, but I didn’t mind. Hopefully, we’ll have time for more discussion later. I find myself worrying about him. Bad feet and ruined hearing seem to be the least of his woes.

  The cyclical, repetitive sounds of his vocal chords being warmed up followed us through the trees as we looped high above the lakeside meadow. By the time we reached our hiding spot, he was in full voice, belting out the aria “La Donna e Mobile.” The warriors sprinted to his side, while the witch in the blue cape observed from the tent along with Kolettelena.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Martinelli: “Welcome back, Salvatore, how was your journey?”

  Bolzano: “Bravo, Your Holiness, what a nice surprise. You do me an honor. Do you have time to take a seat? Here, have mine. The trip was long, too long, but I think the walk did my feet good. Though tired, I feel stronger.”

  Martinelli: “And the olive oil and wine?”

  Bolzano: “I beg your patience, eminence. I have secured all the makings. Tomorrow I will bend to the task.”

  Martinelli: “Is there anything else you want to tell me?”

  Bolzano: “What do you mean?”

  Martinelli: “I asked if there was anything else you wanted to speak to me about. It seems clear enough. Do you?”

  Bolzano: “Your Holiness, I sinned, I gave my escorts communion after our prayers.”

  Martinelli: “Esther didn’t say anything about prayers. She said you poisoned them and then ran off for most of a day.”

  Bolzano: “Somebody had to pick the fruit.”

  Martinelli: “And you are such a hard worker. Salvatore, did you know I saved the rhino skin? Perhaps if you spent an hour or two in the penne your memory will improve.”

  Bolzano: “No, no, I would die.”

  Martinelli: “I believe you would, I really do. Still having nightmares?”

  Bolzano: “I, I, I….”

  Martinelli: “Before you speak, understand this. If you lie, I’ll know. You’re not so good at it anymore. Tell you what, since it’s Christmas, we’ll start fresh. All the lies you’ve already told, and the ones you were just making up in your head, those don’t count. From now on, each lie earns one day in the penne. A whole day, not an hour. Do you understand?”

  Bolzano: “Yes.”

  Martinelli: “I ask again, do you have anything to tell me?”

  Bolzano: “I saw the Americans, all three of them. They travel with the storyteller named Leonglauix. They plan to come to my tent in five days.”

  Martinelli: “How did the woman look? Still pretty?”

  Bolzano: “Though Dr. Duarte’s hair has been cut short and her skin is covered in bug bites, scratches and
mud, she continues to be quite attractive.”

  Martinelli: “She still an uptight little bitch?”

  Bolzano: “Yes and no. She is more serious than ever about her work, wanted to hear all about my efforts. But she is also relaxed in this environment. Just as our natives have helped us adapt, so too has the old man aided the Americans.”

  Martinelli: “Is it really the same pug we busted up along the river?”

  Bolzano: “Yes, and he bears a grudge. He said he plans to eat your kidneys and liver.”

  Martinelli: “I’m shaking. What about the men?”

  Bolzano: “Jones is as hard and intimidating as ever. Kaikane did not say much. I think he and Duarte may be in love.”

  Martinelli: “Did they have pistols, rifles?”

  Bolzano: “No. Jones said their rifles failed not long after the waves. They use native weapons. Nothing special.”

  Martinelli: “You are doing very well, Salvatore. Fear is such a wonderful tool. What about their jumpsuits and helmets? Do they use them?”

  Bolzano: “Dr. Duarte wore her helmet, otherwise they dress as natives.”

  Martinelli: “Where were the suits?”

  Bolzano: “They did not say, and I did not think to ask.”

  Martinelli: “Too busy tattling on me, I suppose.”

  Bolzano: “Your name came up a few times.”

  Martinelli: “I can just hear the American bitch denouncing the great work I have done. Duarte will attempt to erase my accomplishments. Satan walks within her, as he did with all the scientists. God sent those waves! We must finish His work. Tell me, what is their plan?”

  Bolzano: “If they have one, they did not tell me.”

  Martinelli: “Saaaaal?”

  Bolzano: “I do not know, I swear it. I told them you have declared a time of peace, and all are safe during the holiday season. After all, you did swear an oath to God.”

  Martinelli: “Salvatore, don’t make me send for the skin. It’s right up at the top of the hill. The Saints can retrieve it in minutes. Tell me the plan.”

  Bolzano: “I tell the truth, we had no plan. I invited them to church and they said they would see me on Christmas Eve.”

  Martinelli: “Why do your hands shake? You’re lying, aren’t you?”

  Bolzano: “No, no, I swear to you I am not lying. Please, please, don’t hurt me.”

  Martinelli: “Where are they now?”

  Bolzano: “I do not know. They must have been camped near the lake. They would not tell me where.”

  Martinelli: “Get up, Rabbit. You’re lucky I need olive oil and wine. They’re sure to show up, try to ruin my Christmas. I’ll be waiting for them. You’ll be my bait. If they somehow make it through my net, make contact, you are to send word to me immediately. Understood? We’ll be watching you closely, Sal. You don’t wanna to go back in the penne, do you?”

  Bolzano: “No, Your Holiness.”

  Martinelli: “Be a good boy, then.”

  Bolzano: “Yes sir.”

  Martinelli: “I have a surprise for you. Wait ’til you see what Wallunda has learned to do now.”

  From the log of Cpl. Salvatore Bolzano

  Firefighter II

  (English translation)

  The Lord God continues to shine His great favor upon His Holiness Lorenzo Martinelli as the saintly man nears the penultimate moment of his missionary career.

  We have emerged from two days of cold rain which turned trails into streams and home sites into puddles. This morning the sun rose over the mountains to reveal a postcard French Riviera graced by crystal blue skies and gentle sea breezes. The great Lorenzo prayed hard for the change in weather, and the Lord saw fit to reward his efforts with the most glorious conditions we have seen since we arrived. As the women stroll around sans clothes, I think back to Andre and how much he would have enjoyed the sights.

  The sunshine is mirrored in the smiling faces of the throngs of people who have turned out to witness mankind’s first Christmas. Each day, hunting and foraging parties must go further afield to feed the 400 or so Cro-Magnons now scattered along the narrow plain sandwiched between the azure Mediterranean

  Sea and Maritime Alps. The mountaintops are covered with more snow than ever.

  My efforts to produce oil are shameful. I wish I had paid more attention when Father dragged us to the family estate in Umbria each November for the yearly olive harvest. For Papa, owning his own farm, making his own olive oil and wine, those were grand things. Tradition, a point of pride. For me, the whole process was nothing more than an unwelcome distraction from my efforts to bed the farm girls and steal from the household staff.

  I remember we picked all olives, green, purple, it didn’t matter, by knocking them to the ground where nets had been spread. After being washed, the olives were fed into an antique mill which utilized two massive granite wheels to grind them into paste. The wheels rotated while spinning on a central axis over a large stainless steel tub. Although the mill was run by electric motors, there were still holes in the ceiling where belts once attached the driving mechanism to a pair of horses walking circles in the adjacent yard. At least, that is what Father told our guests.

  It was about that time I generally snuck away from the tour and noisy stone barn in search of recreation. I remember something about a hydraulic press being used to squeeze the paste, and then the resulting green oil being fed into a device which separated the good-tasting oil from bad-tasting other stuff. As I rack my brain, I think it must have been a centrifuge.

  I used a rude mortar and pestle to bash my olives into submission, then sandwiched the messy pulp between two heavy flat stones. Oil began dripping off the downhill edge almost immediately, but it was so bitter it burned my tongue in a way which stayed with me for hours. It was dreadful, not worthy of such a special occasion.

  I have been tinkering with my procedures and, for now, my hopes rest upon a thin leather bag. I pray that either the stuff dripping out the bag’s corner, or the stuff left behind, will meet the standards of the Exalted One.

  He stops by my tent through the day to share his divine knowledge and insights, as he rushes about preparing for tomorrow night’s Christmas Eve service. Teams of Tattoo warriors hunt to supply the grand two-day feast. Their women gather rushes to be used as torches to light the outdoor cathedral.

  The Americans have not yet shown their faces, and it makes me wonder if God has taken care of this hurdle as he has so many others. Perhaps the storm caught them up on the mountain and they froze to death. The snow line extends down to less than 400 meters above the level of the sea, though today’s warm sun is rapidly chasing it back up to a higher altitude.

  I do not think they will come. If they do, they will find it harder than ever to surprise the Chosen One now that he has confiscated my helmet and jumpsuit and reprogrammed them to be shared by a trio of his faithful Saints. With the help of the Lord Almighty and Master Sgt. Leonard’s computer, he has bypassed the security measures which limit their use. Wallunda now wears Amacapane’s suit. It is a loose fit to be sure. The Saints take turns wearing mine. I do not miss the suit. Even if I did, I would never fit inside.

  They appear to have full visual capabilities, as well as all stealth options. The Great One says Wallunda took to her suit like a fish to water. The men, however, were shocked by all the modern bells and whistles. They have suffered some growing pains, but are slowly building their confidence.

  Now, when I see a glimmer pass by, I am never sure who it is. As you can imagine, Wallunda basks in her newfound power. Lorenzo thinks it is a riot when she sneaks up on unsuspecting souls and dumps their food in their lap, or trips them so they tumble downhill. Those two share a very unique sense of humor.

  Though my wine smells like cleaning fluid, it has just the right amount of kick. The best part is, I have been sipping the stuff all day and no headache yet. I paid even less attention to my father’s efforts to produce the best red wine in Umbria, so I must thank God for sending
me to jail to teach me the error of my ways.

  As the sun makes its way toward the horizon, it is time to pour another gourd beaker of moonshine and enjoy the view.

  Merry Christmas.

  CHAPTER TWO

  TRANSMISSION:

  Kaikane: “Way the wind’s blowing, I can smell goose meat pie all the way up here. What you think, Jones, wanna head down, grab a slice?”

  Jones: “Me and the old man think it’s time to move on. Find a new spot. Kolettelena’s acting funny.”

  Kaikane: “Noticed that myself. We going where there’s less mosquitoes?”

  Jones: “You know Gray Beard, already has a place in mind. Cave up in the hills. Says we’ll be safe to build a fire.”

  Kaikane: “Sounds good to me. Don’t tell Maria, but I’m getting tired of her muesli crap three times a day.”

  Jones: “Roger that.”

  From the log of Maria Duarte

  Chief Botanist

  A blizzard has trapped us in a shallow cave 893 meters above sea level, in the hills almost directly above the Italians’ camp.

  What a snow storm! I’ve heard tales and read stories, but never experienced one before. Giant flakes float down by the millions. Gray Beard and I have inspected individual snowflakes with my magnifying glasses, and we both confirm the old adage is true, no two are alike.

  Leonglauix spotted the storm more than four hours before it hit. We were walking up a ridge about halfway from Kolettelena’s lake when he motioned us to take a break. He leaned on a spear and inspected the clouds, sniffed the air.

  Turning to see Paul and me studying him, he pointed the spear to the trees swaying in the wind and said in his guttural language, “Storm coming.” He held his arms tight to his chest and pretended to shake. “It will be cold.” The four of us stood there in the hazy sunshine as he turned uphill to survey the terrain, twist his beard in thought.

  After a few minutes, he gave a grunt to show he had reached a decision. “We go,” he said with a chop of his hand, and a point to signal the direction. Forward. “Fast.”