Rome

by Matthew Thayer

  The play went down just as they scripted. The three of us thwarted his scorch-and-burn strategy with retreat and delay, minimizing his earnings and grabbing a few respectable pots. He was playing better than we were, drawing better cards than we were and his stack of chips far outmatched all of ours combined.

  I would rather not say how I knew, but the time to strike came about an hour north of Calabria when Vito was dealt four 10s and I drew a pair of jacks to total four of those handsome devils. Vito tried to bid me under the table and I was forced to transfer funds on the spot to continue the betting. Once the hands were shown, Vito’s entire stack of chips was slid in front of me.

  After the next hand, we had his gold markers and a sizable chunk of his bank account transferred into ours. We took him when he could afford to lose it, could afford to pretend to laugh it off. I encountered Vito perhaps a dozen times after that, mostly social functions in Rome, but also in Nice and even Moscow.

  He always slapped me on the back with a laugh and asked, “Where is my money? I know you and the old men cheated me.”

  By then he was aware of who I was and which family I came from. He also had learned that Sanfilippo & Monzano were not two gentlemen trying to get in touch with their Mafioso roots. They were the Mafioso’s roots. We were untouchable.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Jones: “Ya cheated ‘em?”

  Bolzano: “What is the saying you and Kaikane have about the bones? If you are not–”

  Jones: “If you ain’t cheatin’, you ain’t tryin’.”

  Bolzano: “Then in Vito’s case, I was trying very hard.”

  Jones: “Sounds dangerous, no matter who your daddy was.”

  Bolzano: “Indeed, but I had the very best equipment. And the best drugs, I could go for days without becoming tired or losing mental acuity.”

  Jones: “How’d that work out?”

  Bolzano: “If you must know, it led to my first stint in rehab.”

  Jones: “Doin’ good this time. Ya miss boozin’ it up?”

  Bolzano: “I suppose I did booze it up a little too much. I miss the good parts, the fun times, but not the hangovers and morning shakes. When I behold the quality and magnitude of the work I have accomplished while sober, I know I would have to be crazy to take up my association with Bacchus again.”

  Jones: “Ya layin’ odds yet?”

  Bolzano: “Fifty-fifty?”

  Jones: “I’ll put a month of hauling game on relapse within five moons.”

  Bolzano: “No faith?”

  Jones: “Sal, soon as ya find a grape or plum to ferment, you’re gonna be tryin’ to squeeze alcohol out of it.”

  Bolzano: “I will just have to prove you wrong.”

  Jones: “Like to see that.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  TRANSMISSION:

  Hunter: “The first attempt was gibberish and now this one’s full of lies. Delete while you still can and try again.”

  Duarte: “Yes.”

  Hunter: “Yes what?”

  Duarte: “Yes, Commander.”

  Hunter: “Better. Carry on.”

  From the log of Maria Duarte

  Chief Botanist

  I do not know how long we have been on the move, where we are, or where we are going. Though I am comfortable in my suit, this land looks hot and muggy. No drought here along the river. Many new plants in this region. Tall red ferns sprout yellow seedpods. Ivy and other creepers choke out many areas of undergrowth, yet completely avoid others.

  In the past I studied such things. Now I serve the Commander. The Commander has allowed me one day’s rest before we continue. He has lowered the settings on my jumpsuit so that I have control over my movements. As long as I do not try running away, the Commander says he will grant me more freedom to think and move. I’d like that.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Hunter: “As long as they haven’t keeled over and gone extinct on me, there’s a real treat in store for you over this ridge.”

  Duarte: “Treats are nice, sir. I like treats, sir.”

  Hunter: “Is that two sirs in one reply?”

  Duarte: “I’m sorry, sir.”

  Hunter: “You know the rules. One thousand pushups.”

  Duarte: “Yes, sir.”

  From the log of Maria Duarte

  Chief Botanist

  The commanding officer has paid me the honor of trust today. I am left alone in a mountain cave while he reconnoiters the high meadow it overlooks. There is something he wishes to show me, but cannot find.

  My orders are to write botanical reports on the plants we have witnessed on our journey. I see many pushups in my future. I don’t remember the plants or anything else clearly enough to write. Details are just beyond my grasp.

  I know I’m not supposed to say this, but if I was permitted to travel without the jumpsuit when he shows me important things, I could appreciate them better. I could do a better job writing about them. We shadowed a traveling Cro-Magnon clan yesterday. Despite stalking them for hours, sitting down and watching them eat lunch, I recall nothing of their tools or clothing. I didn’t bother documenting their language or gauging their evolutionary progress. I was assessing the best way to defend myself, the surest method to kill the natives should the need arise.

  I do appreciate when the Commander lowers his control levels as he has done now. If I could move my legs, I’d almost feel human. Floating past the edge of my consciousness are things I’m forgetting, important things. I feel them.

  The Commander says he will allow me to remove my jumpsuit when I am ready to do the “bump and grind” with him. Though he makes inappropriate comments and threatens to make me “flash tits,” he has so far abstained from such misconduct. This is our longest halt so far. We usually stop only long enough to eat and take on water.

  Though it is a guess, I’d estimate we’ve been running for about 10 days. If we averaged nine miles per hour and ran for 20 hours a day, that could place us up to 1,800 miles from where we started. That’s the million Norte Americano question. Where did we start? Why?

  That part of my life is blocked from me. Like the tingles amputee victims “feel” in long-gone fingertips, memories niggle just out of my reach. We left something important behind. Or someone. There was an argument and we left. Why can’t I remember? The Commander says these things happen on a run. He tells me to be patient. Therefore, I am patient.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Hunter: “Flip up your visor.”

  Duarte: “Why, sir?

  Hunter: “I want to see your face. Do it.”

  Duarte: “Yes, sir.”

  Hunter: “Your laugh lines are gone Maria. Your hair is black.”

  From the log of Hunter

  (aka–Giovanni Bolzano, Dr. Mitchell Simmons)

  Ethics Specialist

  I will not make the same mistakes with Duarte as I did with my conniving son Salvatore. Gave the wanker an inch and he took a bloody mile.

  Duarte says she wants “coherence.” Claims all the wonders we’ve experienced this past month have passed her by without registering. Is she is working from Salvatore’s playbook? Lull me into charity then stab me in the gut? It is possible.

  In this current control mode, however, I believe she’s within safety parameters. Too bad it leaves her interesting as a box of hammers. It is once again time to fiddle with her inputs and outputs to see if I can come up with a productive setting. Hopefully none of this causes permanent damage. Wouldn’t that be a bloody shame!

  Memory is the key. It surprises me how retrospection affects interesting conversation. If there’s no backstory, no shared associations or context, it seems there’s quickly nothing to talk about. That said, as much I would enjoy better conversation, I’m not sure I’m ready to hear Duarte go on and on about her sorry-ass husband.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Hunter: “Get a look at those hairy buggers.”

  Duarte: “Neanderthal, sir?”

  Hunter: “Guess again.
”

  Duarte: “They aren’t Cro-Magnon . . .”

  Hunter: “Denisovans.”

  Duarte: “The Team briefed us on these, sir. First I’ve seen.”

  From the log of Maria Duarte

  Chief Botanist

  I dreamed I was the Commander in a world without trees or people. The dream lasted many hours as we slept in a forest, side by side.

  I was stalking a pig, slithering on my stomach through coarse grass. The savannah was void of the sounds we’re accustomed to. No birds chirped or cawed in the pale blue sky. Absent were the roar of lions, laughter of hyena, howl of wolf, snort of bison and constant hum of insects.

  A few flies and one centipede were the only wildlife I saw, apart from the sow. She was an old girl with saggy teats and long yellow tusks that curved like scimitars from her lower jaw. It took me an hour to get close enough to poke her with a spear. If I had one!

  In the dream, I reach to unsling my spear carrier and find it empty. My spears have fallen out and are lost. The pig has sniffed me out by now and I’m soon running for my life. There was no waking as the pig ran me down and hooked my thigh with its razor tusk. Finishing off the fatal blow, the pig tossed me so high I tumbled through the air.

  With each turn, I stopped to sample a different snippet of the Commander’s life. He was born Giovanni when there were trees and people. He was good at sports, but didn’t like his coaches. In college he made friends with the UberMind. One after another the memories clicked by, never slowing or picking up speed: graduation, marriage, parenthood, business success, inventions, awards, nano life extension treatments, burying parents, burying wives, burying children, the Thinning of Earth’s population by 85 percent.

  Darker and darker the dream grew, until with a sudden flash I found myself smack dab in one of my favorite childhood memories, harvesting my first garden crop. From darkness to light, I felt like I had been spit out the end of a tube.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Hunter: “This memory you write about, how does it end?”

  Duarte: “Which memory, sir?”

  Hunter: “The garden. You had a bet with your father. Who won?”

  Duarte: “I don’t remember writing that, sir.”

  Hunter: “Just tell me.”

  Duarte: “I don’t remember, sir.”

  From the log of Hunter

  (aka–Giovanni Bolzano, Dr. Mitchell Simmons)

  Ethics Specialist

  It took longer than expected, but we finally found what remains of the Denisovan populace hiding high in the mountains, camped around a small pond full of turtles and frogs. Only a dozen out of thousands are left. Their simple lean-tos of fallen limbs and uprooted ferns are far cries from the circular grass huts I remember from my last visit. How many centuries ago was that?

  Judging by the few items of value they carry and the fact that a dozen Cro-Magnon clans now reside in their ancestral valley, this branch of mankind is rapidly being supplanted. History says they become extinct, so why am I surprised, saddened even, to see it happening? Having hunted with the men and sampled the women, I have fond memories of the Denisovan people. They were courageous and dutiful. It would be a shame if these sorrowful louts represent the proud species’ caboose.

  If Duarte would only focus, The Team could probably get a few award-winning reports out of her. As one of the mission’s planners, I know Denisovans were high on The Team’s priority list.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  From the log of Hunter

  Ethics Specialist

  63 A.D.

  Having spent so many years on this green Earth, you’d think I would be better at anticipating life’s unexpected turns. Things were going too well. That should have been my first bloody clue.

  I only wish the buggers had come to fetch me in the dew of morning or better yet, it rained and Sabriana and I stayed in bed all day. The doe-eyed farmer’s daughter and I wasted eight hours crawling on our hands and knees in the crocus field. That time could have been put to far better use indoors. The soldiers did not allow us a proper goodbye.

  Worries it might rain and ruin the saffron crop flushed us out of bed well before dawn. Employing wooden tweezers, we plucked three blood-colored stigmas from each purple flower. For such backbreaking work it is startling how meager the harvest is in terms of weight. I’d like to throttle the man who suggested I plant saffron instead of grapes.

  The only saving grace for the tedium of endlessly creeping up one row and down the other was the view of Sabriana’s magnificent bosom as she came toward me and the sight of her ripe, round ass after she passed. I’ll also miss that pleasingly lopsided smile and quick blush when teased.

  The young widow knew the soldiers were trouble from the moment we spied their pennants cresting a hill two leagues distant.

  “We should hide,” said she.

  “You worry too much,” said I.

  As I’m the one currently bound by manacles, we know who had the right of it.

  Not that running or hiding was viable. As the centuriae marched up my lane, no less than 20 advance scouts emerged from behind trees and rock walls to surround my garden. After hearing so many complaints how Roman military standards have suffered under Emperor Nero, it was strangely gratifying for an Italian to experience such a crack unit coming to attention next to his woodpile.

  All the men were tall, fearsomely armed, straight-backed and powerfully muscled. I cried out for Sabriana as the scouts grabbed her arms to halt her dash for the house. I’ve seen my share of rape and murder in situations like this. As far as I was able to discern, they treated her honorably. Once brought under control, she was led to the side of my house to be questioned by a junior officer where I could bear witness but not overhear.

  The soldiers’ bronze helmets were reinforced with brass visors and featured cheek guards stamped with crocodile designs. Horsehair plumes jutting from the crests alternated yellow and black. Though scratched and dented, their armor and weapons were obviously well cared for.

  Stomping through the rows of crocus without a care of how many he trod upon, a tall, lithe scout with gray sprinkled through his short hair began issuing orders. “Number Two, take your nine and search the house. Anyone steals, I’ll have his hand.” The helmet under his arm featured a crest that fanned horizontally instead of front to back like the others. I was to learn that designated him as a centurion.

  “Rufus, build a fire and feed the men.” His overbite gave him a slight lisp. “We’ll build a camp here and start back to Assisi at daybreak.”

  Turning to me, he asked, “Do we have your permission to sample your larder? I’m sure the men will appreciate fresh bread and vino. It has been a long march.”

  “Yes, of course. Help yourself.” As if I had a choice in the matter. I began for the house to show them where I kept my supplies, but was stopped short by a pair of crossed spears.

  “Rufus knows his way around a kitchen. Please join me for a seat in the shade.”

  “Certainly, what can I do to assist you?”

  “I’m looking for someone.”

  “Who?”

  “You, I think.”

  “Me?”

  “You passed through Assisi a year and a half ago. That is when you bought the deed to this property.”

  “I have never been to Assisi, though I hear it is inviting. Situated on a hill, I believe.”

  “While in Assisi you cheated an officer at dice, killed him and set his tent ablaze. Do you remember any of that?”

  I stuck to my story about inheriting the land, struggled to keep the concern off my face. “I received the property as a bequest from an uncle who was killed while serving the Emperor in Egypt.”

  “The man who died in Assisi was my brother.”

  “Please accept my condolences for your loss.”

  “Alerio wasn’t a perfect man, but a brother is a brother. You are going to accompany me to Assisi. If the eyewitnesses say I have the wrong man, you will be welcome to
find your way home.”

  “And when my good name is cleared, will you return what you have taken from me? Will I be reimbursed for my losses?”

  “I should just kill you and be on my way. My orders are to march north. I must have confirmation my brother has been avenged. Once I’m sure you’re the correct man, I’ll have you flayed. This is my blood oath.”

  He ordered a squad of 10 to guard me while he set off to conduct a very methodical search for treasure that turned up most of my secret stashes, including a clay pot of coins buried under the wooden front porch and a gold chain I’d painted white and used to hang a potted basil plant outside the kitchen window.

  The farina Rufus didn’t use to make the 100 loaves of bread he baked in my outdoor stone oven was portioned out, poured into cloth bags and distributed to the men. Like locusts, they emptied my cupboards and cellar of what was intended to be a winter’s worth of provisions. I never saw who filched the two little bags of saffron we picked, but imagine Chef Rufus got those too.