Tuscany

by Matthew Thayer

  Duarte: “Is that what he told your father?”

  Bolzano: “Who knows what he told Papa? I gathered it was something along the lines of, ‘How would you like to finally rid your family of this troublemaker once and for all? And do it in a way which may bring great honor and fame to his besmirched name?’ At least, that is how I picture it.”

  Duarte: “What did you do to deserve exile?”

  Bolzano: “We do not have enough sunlight left in the day to cover so much ground. Let us fast-forward to the straw which broke the camel’s back. I was caught running a scheme through the school where I was employed. Turning their greed back upon themselves, I bilked several patrons out of large sums of money which I used to pay gambling debts and have a bit of fun. I was certain the scam was foolproof, right up until the end.

  “Oh, well, Father paid everything back with interest and fines. I could see it would be the last time. A month later, we visited the Cardinal in the Duomo. Together, Papa and Cardinal Sellaro offered me a chance to absolve my sins and hopefully pay back the family. When they described The Team and its mission, I jumped at the opportunity. I knew I would miss my comfortable lifestyle, but it had become such a bore going to the opera and seeing women make sure their purses were held close when I drew near. Men lusted to punch me in the eye. Crippled children make such sympathetic victims.”

  Duarte: “You mentioned your sins. So you do believe?”

  Bolzano: “Merely a figure of speech, I assure you. I am not religious, though I was forced to draw upon all of my long-forgotten Catholicism to stay alive around Lorenzo.”

  Duarte: “How do you explain your role in Martinelli’s holy crusade? I’ve heard your stories. The fire, the kayak, the rhino hunt. Why didn’t you just walk away? Or hamstring him in his sleep? By doing nothing, you put the entire future of mankind in jeopardy.”

  Bolzano: “I am a coward. I am weak. I have no spine. Is that what you wish to hear? It is all true. I was sucked into the vortex of Lorenzo Martinelli’s orbit and could do nothing to break free. Whenever I mustered the courage to defy him, the man was quick to slap me into line. I assure you, his violence and lust for power knew no boundaries. I had a front-row seat to observe his deranged world.”

  Duarte: “Even so, you could have….”

  Bolzano: “He tied me to a cross! He wrapped me in rhino skins and had me tortured. Twice! I am lucky I can hold two thoughts at the same time in my mutilated brain!”

  Duarte: “Enough, corporal. Lower your voice and sit back down.”

  Bolzano: “It is so easy for you to judge me. You did not go through what I went through, every moment walking a tightrope between torture and death.”

  Duarte: “Though I understand you have suffered, an official inquiry must be completed before this matter is put to rest. Jones and Kaikane will be serving on the panel.”

  Bolzano: “Vaffanculo, Dottoressa Duarte!”

  From the log of Maria Duarte

  Chief Botanist

  Sergeant Lorenzo Martinelli is dead, Cpl. Juniper Jones is alive, and after several days in a swirling dream world, I too can be counted among the living.

  Martinelli committed suicide six days ago in an unsuccessful attempt to kill Cpl. Jones, Spc. Kaikane and me. His death came after a hilltop skirmish near the area where the Italian city of Florence will be built. “Firenze,” if you are speaking with Bolzano.

  When all seemed lost, Cpl. Jones emerged to save the day with a pair of bolts cast by his newly-built atlatl. Though wounded with a badly-injured back, Jones walked from France to put himself in position to turn the tide. The soldier deserves the highest honors for valor, courage and steadfastness under duress.

  While as many as 37 of Sgt. Martinelli’s followers were killed in the fighting, quite a few survived to scatter to the winds. Leonglauix predicts they will return to their home ranges. What, if any, improvements in battle tactics and military organization, or changes in religious or social mores they take with them is left to be seen.

  Only time will allow us to gauge the impact the Italians have wrought upon this world. The storyteller assures me the Tattoos are worthless incompetents incapable of leading a popular movement. He may not have put it that way, but that was what he meant. “Nobody trusts the Tattoos,” he says.

  I am convinced, however, the Italians’ meddling has the potential to spread without any further help from the hated Tattoos. By mixing massacre and magic tricks, religion and empire building, Martinelli and his boys planted their modern seeds from the Atlantic coast of France all the way to the heart of Italy. We may spend years cleaning up their mess. Or it may already be too late.

  I questioned Cpl. Bolzano today in an attempt to learn exactly what happened. The man’s evasiveness tells me he’s hiding something. I have scheduled a hearing tomorrow before the full Team. All four members still in service are ordered to be present.

  While I recognize, short of capital punishment or constant guard, there is little we can do to restrain Cpl. Bolzano, I must know his intentions for this world. If his goal is to continue this insane gamble with the course of mankind by promulgating religion and empire, I may indeed vote for capital punishment. Could I swing the blade or throw the spear? When I think of the thousand kilometers of burned-out camps and dead natives left to rot in the Italians’ wake, I think I could.

  We need search no further than our own camp to see the damage caused by the Italians. We share the area along the river with the newly re-formed Green Turtle clan. Only seven survivors remain from the original Green Turtles. When we “moderns” first set foot in its world, the remarkably self-sufficient clan boasted more than 30 individuals, and about that many dogs. Hunting, gathering, treating wounds, tending births, burying its dead, the clan roamed the great forests of Europe with confidence and pride for many generations. The Green Turtles were renowned for their storytelling and songs, their appreciation of life. Now, all of the children are dead, nearly all of the men are dead and most of the women have either been killed or absorbed into other clans. How many other clans are suffering similar fates?

  Though sickly and beaten down, this group shows a glimmer of life under the reclamation efforts by Leonglauix. At his urging, the Turtles have welcomed another clan into the fold. The swarthy group shared portage duties with the Turtle clan as the lowest of the low in the Italians’ army.

  After more than a month of over-hunting by Martinelli and his troops, game is scarce. Even so, the rejuvenated Turtles have managed to extract enough sustenance from the river and budding trees to begin building a healthy layer of flesh over the razor-thin bodies I recall upon our arrival.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Kaikane: “Hey, Sal, you ever play bocce?”

  Bolzano: “Pardon me?”

  Kaikane: “Bocce, it’s an Italian game right? You ever play?”

  Bolzano: “Of course. My family had at least one court at each residence.”

  Kaikane: “I found some rocks. They’re pretty round. You wanna play a quick match?”

  Bolzano: “You are not planning to pump me for information for your girlfriend, are you?”

  Kaikane: “Nope.”

  Bolzano: “Oh, well, why not? Care to place a wager?”

  From the log of Lance Cpl. Juniper Jones

  Security Detail II

  Blue mood circles like a hawk. Closer and closer. Too much noise. Too many people.

  Duarte wasn’t awake one hour before she started in. Pestering about my back, how skinny I was. Forgot what a pain in the ass she can be. Wants to “help” me. Back hurts so bad, gonna let her give it a go.

  Intense woman. Wants to bring Bolzano up on charges. Can’t see the fucking point. She throws him jail, I ain’t gonna be no guard. Sal’s as useless as ever. Lazy, but still entertaining in the conversation department. Man’s been through hell and looks it.

  Hostiles have stayed away. Running north in search of game. Bad hunting here. Martinelli’s hunters cleaned this valley out.

>   Searched for Martinelli’s computer. Nowhere to be found. Kaikane thinks it was tucked in his jumpsuit when he blew himself up. Possible. Detonation imploded inward. Not much was left.

  Still can’t find the kayaks. We search with helmets and without. No sign of them, though I’m not much help. Can barely walk.

  Late for my doctor’s appointment. Hope this works.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Jones: “Whaddaya hope to prove puttin’ Bolzano on trial?”

  Duarte: “I need to know the truth.”

  Jones: “He and the truth ain’t all that well acquainted.”

  Duarte: “Exactly right. This business with Martinelli and his Tattoos is not over. Too many escaped. You guys should have stopped them, ordered them to stay.”

  Jones: “Ya don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”

  From the log of Maria Duarte

  Chief Botanist

  A wave of dizziness almost knocked me from my feet as I rose to welcome Jones to the tent. I had to steady myself against a pole to keep from falling. He moved to help me, but I waved him off as my head swam and lights flashed across my eyes.

  “I’m OK, just stood up too quickly.”

  “Maybe I should come back later.”

  “No, it’ll be all right.”

  He gave me a sideways look when I instructed him to undress and lay face down on the bed.

  “Man don’t need to take off his clothes for a chiropractic adjustment.”

  “My computer says massage and heat may also help. I’m going to give you a rub down, and then Paul will crack your back. Go on, strip, soldier. What’s the matter? You act like I’ve never seen your penis before.”

  “Hung like a tick,” Paul chimed in.

  “That’s cold. Musta been a winter day you’re referring to.”

  My computer’s data on back injuries was quite expansive, yet most of it relied on modern imaging equipment to confirm diagnosis. Another strike was that many of the fixes required surgery with modern tools or treatment with medicines we have no hope of replicating.

  My most helpful information was uncovered in a field guide for long-term land expeditions. Included in its chapter on medical issues was a good nuts-and-bolts guide on how to treat and recover from injuries sustained out in the bush. The guide confirmed my suspicions that Jones’ current back pain may be separate and independent from his earlier injury–which appears to have been a compression fracture of the spine.

  Jones says while the initial pain was centered in the vertebrae of his neck, his most recent discomfort radiates outward from the base of his spine. He also experiences shooting pains down his left leg–sciatica. My diagnosis is, Jones popped his sacrum out of place when he launched his bolts with force great enough to penetrate a jumpsuit.

  The field guide says spasms can cause the muscles in the lower back to contract and dislocate the sacrum even further. It suggested massage and the application of heat and healing herbs, but stressed that the only quick fix was a chiropractic adjustment. Following the directions and diagrams, I tried to practice on Paul. My fears that I would injure the only healthy member of The Team kept me from really cracking anything. I also found that he was so much bigger than me, I had a hard time applying the necessary amount of lift and pressure.

  Paul finally volunteered to take my place.

  “Why don’t I adjust his back? You’ve never been to a chiropractor before, have you?”

  “My parents didn’t believe in them.”

  “My mom went all the time. She had back problems her whole life.”

  “How about you? Ever had your back cracked?”

  “A few times. Down in Argentina, I tweaked my back on a wipeout. Guy helped me.”

  “Was it your lower back?”

  “Nah, more in the middle. But Jose did all the moves I see here in the drawings. I’m willing to try.”

  I spent more than an hour working out knots from the balls of Jones’ feet all the way to the top of his spine. He was tight as a drum. For lubricant, I dipped handfuls of a herb-infused, yellow mud from a cook bag hung by the fire. The warm mud was a suggestion of Gray Beard’s. The old man was full of advice, but chose to visit Bolzano’s tent rather than stay and supervise. He and Sal have been spending a lot of time together. I worry the Italian is up to some sort of mischief.

  Once I was through with Jones’ lower back, we placed warm, flat stones over the spots where he suffers the most intense pain. Paul rotated rocks from the edge of the fire to keep a steady heat on the small of Jones’ back. My efforts earned groans and moans from Jones, as well as one surprise fart which cracked us all up.

  Though Paul and I had agreed it would be better if he appeared to be in charge, knowledgeable and confident when it came time to perform the adjustments, I couldn’t help sticking my nose into things.

  “This is really going to help you, Jones,” Paul said as the withered giant rolled over onto his side. “Maria, which leg is supposed to be up?”

  Next thing I knew, I was right there in the middle of things, reading the steps off like a checklist as Paul positioned Jones’ legs and arms. Following the instructions, he put Jones’s bent leg through a range of motion before laying on top and giving a solid push.

  With a clearly audible “pop,” we heard the sacrum shift back into place. We didn’t get as much sound from the other side, but Jones said he felt something give a little bit.

  “Want me to do your neck?”

  “What the hell, Kaikane, you’re on a roll. Go for it.”

  We repeated the process of me reading the directions and Paul providing the chiropractor’s touch. “Cr-r-r-r-r-r-r-rack! Cr-r-r-r-r-r-r-rack!” It sounded so horrible I was sure we had turned Jones into a quadriplegic. He sat up and rolled his neck.

  “Damn, that feels pretty good.”

  When he stood to gingerly walk around the tent, the corporal’s spine no longer curved to the left. Ducking outside, he rose to his full height and stretched his arms into the air. “I think you guys did it. Wow, like flipping a switch. Thanks.”

  Before I allowed his escape, I made him listen to a speech I had been practicing. I told him about my research on depression and the native plants I had found which may help alleviate the symptoms. Things like St. John’s wort and Valerian root. I also read him a bit of a riot act about his diet. “You’ll start losing teeth if you’re not careful!”

  I made him unstow his computer and showed him where to find a section on depression, and another on specific stretching and strengthening exercises to help his back. I expected him to walk off at any moment, but he patiently listened until I was out of advice. Not really out, but I could sense he really needed to be off on his own.

  Finally, I snapped off a salute and said, ‘You are dismissed, soldier.’ He broke into a smile and gently wrapped his arms around me in a hug.

  “Maybe you’re not such a fucked-up doctor after all.”

  Considering the source, I took it as quite a compliment.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  TRANSMISSION:

  Kaikane: “This is better than a birthday!”

  Duarte: “The water man gets his toys.”

  From the log of Paul Kaikane

  Recreation Specialist

  Gray Beard walked up to me this morning and asked, “When are you going to dig for what is buried in the hole?” Shaking his head at my blank look, he took me by the arm and walked me to the southern edge of the tent. Pointing to a muddy spot less than ten paces away, he said, “There. Do you already know what is in the ground?”

  When I asked him why he didn’t say something earlier, he responded with a disgusted look that said he didn’t think he needed to point out a thing so obvious. I had stepped around the long, narrow puddle at least fifty times in the past week, yet never suspected there was treasure buried below.

  Noting the spot’s length and narrow width, my hopes soared. For one of the few times on this sorrowful mission, our dreams were realized. It too
k most of the morning to dig three kayaks from the slippery mud. Gray Beard helped me find the tools, but stayed clean and dry, along with Maria, Bolzano and Jones, under cover of the tent.

  The rain tapered off as the four patients sat in the shade chatting. Every so often, they shouted some advice as I waded thigh-deep in the mud. When I finally wrestled the boats free, I muscled them up to the tent for inspection.

  Bolzano knew the codes to unlock the holds, and suggested we start first with the ruined kayak. Jones let out a low whistle when I released the forward hatch to reveal a stash of ivory beads, flint daggers, ceremonial tools and several small leather bags holding dozens of gem stones and bits of amber.

  “Man tore up an entire kayak for that?”

  “Let me see,” Maria said.

  We cleaned out both holds and spread the booty across the woven blanket on our bed. Maria propped herself up to examine the Venus statues and sort through a small pile of shell and ivory beads.

  “Is this all of it?”

  “There was a bit more,” Bolzano said. “He must have it buried around here somewhere.”

  “No wonder Martinelli was so angry with you, Bolzano. You robbed him blind. Didn’t you?”

  “That is a fair assumption.”

  Jones compared the knives to his own, checked them for balance and sharpness. “This gear ain’t too bad.”

  “You haven’t seen Malmud’s stash,” Maria said. “Paul, you should show him, and, hon, can you grab my magnifying glass kit while you’re up?”

  Bolzano danced a little jig when he saw me pull the rolled leather bag from my pack.

  “You have the treasure,” he exclaimed. “This is the crème de la crème!”

  We spent an hour sorting through the native handicrafts, raw gems, blades and tools. Sal said some pieces were donated gladly by clan leaders swept up into the glow of Martinelli’s crusade. Many others came at the expense of entire tribes, camps wiped out by the Tattoos and their violent leader.