“He didn’t count on something,” Rucker said. “It was something beyond his ken. Something I don’t think he ever understood, even before he went crazier than an outhouse rat. Something he could never attain. It was the one weapon that was unbeatable. One he couldn’t defend against.”
“And that is?” Terah asked.
“Forgiveness. Just that. Forgiveness and love,” Rucker said.
Terah and Deitel didn’t understand.
But Rucker could see that Renault did. They’d shared the sadist’s mental torture.
Rucker knew he hurt the ones who loved him most all those years ago. Every person does eventually. And he’d done terrible things in the war.
He squeezed Terah’s hand.
For a long time he’d let all those things eat away at his soul. Then he finally realized he could either let those mistakes be a stone around his neck forever, or he could do the hard thing—keep on living. He was wrong, yes, but he was young and stupid and didn’t know a thing about the world.
Life is nothing but endless choices, and sometimes a man chooses wrong. You try to learn from mistakes and make restitution when you wrong someone. But he’d come to understand that if you don’t accept yourself and the reality of life, you’ll pile up so much guilt you’ll be buried in it.
“I realized I had to forgive myself or I might as well have laid down and died,” Rucker said. “I could never say ‘I love you’ or ‘I’m sorry’ and have it mean anything if I held the ‘I’ in those phrases in contempt. I couldn’t do right tomorrow if I never let go of the wrong I did yesterday.
“It’s not perfect, but it’s enough.”
Terah squeezed his hand. Again. Something unsaid passed between them.
“Look, enough of this jawing,” Rucker said. “We need to get these goons locked away so that when this ship lands we can get away clean.”
While Terah, Deitel, and Professor Renault waited and watched, Rucker took Skorzeny and Der Schädel by the arms and marched them toward an open crate near the cargo bay door. Deitel had injected Der Schädel with a healthy dose of scopalomine, and then added a second dose just to be sure. Der Schädel could not focus his powers.
“Nothing personal, Lieutenant Skorzeny. It’s war, but nothing personal,” Rucker said. “You and the rest of these clowns will be freed when the crew comes for the cargo.”
“Why aren’t you killing us?” Skorzeny sneered.
“I wonder sometimes myself. Something about the difference between the good guys and the bad guys. Guess what—you’re the bad guys,” Rucker said. “By the time they discover you, you should be well on your way to Algeria by way of Cyprus.”
Skorzeny snorted.
“You took a coward’s way out in our duel, Rucker. I won’t forget that,” he grumbled.
“I won’t forget you either,” Der Schädel said through the fog of the drug. “And you won’t forget me, Fox. I’ll be in your head for the rest of your days. Every time you close your eyes you’ll have to wonder if it’s the time I’ll come for you. I’ll eat away at your soul. We’re linked now. You can never hide from me. Even a world away, I’ll reach into your mind and make you suffer. You’ll never escape me. You’ll never again know peace—only pain.”
“All righty then.” Rucker didn’t even slow his pace; as they passed the open cargo bay door he shoved Der Schädel out.
For a moment everyone was stunned.
Finally, Deitel nodded. As did Terah. Professor Renault smiled.
For some things, there was no need for talk or guilt.
Skorzeny moved then. Having worked his hands loose from the knots, he snapped a kick that struck Rucker’s jaw and sent him sprawling. Outnumbered and with no other choices, Skorzeny dove out the same cargo bay door from which Der Schädel had been pushed. Rucker was up but too late. At the door, he looked down, but saw no falling body. Calculating the time elapsed and the speed of falling objects, he knew that Skorzeny shouldn’t have been more than seven hundred feet below them, but he saw nothing. Maybe that kick left him and his normally keen eyesight fuzzier than he initially thought.
Finally he shrugged. The irony of Skorzeny’s means of escape wasn’t lost on him. Rucker had done the same in Rome.
“Time to go see a Greek man about a horse,” he said.
Deitel was the last out.
“You know, Herr Captain, I seem to recall that didn’t work out too well for the Trojans,” the doctor said to no one in particular.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Estate of Nicholas Filotoma on Nisida Pithou Island
Seven miles offshore from Volos in the Pagasetic Gulf
Greece
“No, I am saying Leonidas should have considered his options better,” Nicholas Filotoma said brashly. Deitel noted that everything the Greek merchant did, he did brashly, so the belch that preceded the next outburst was hardly as surprising as it would have been were it anyone else. Even the man’s clothing was brash—brightly colored silk shirt opened down the chest to reveal necklaces nestled in black hair thick as a bird’s nest, and tight, brightly striped jodhpurs.
“Ah, the young fool—so much courage, so much stupid in the head,” Filotoma said, slapping his thick but solid midsection. Though Filotoma was a heavy looking man, it didn’t appear much of his bulk was fat. He was built like a rhino. “Why he is national hero is disgrace, and I say this as direct descendant of the fruit of his tenderloins. On my mother’s side.”
The Greek laughed with a thunder that shook the heaping platters of food that completely covered the Persian-style low table around which Deitel, Rucker, Terah, and Professor Renault lounged.
“My father’s side, of course, is descended from Dionysus,” Filotoma said.
It was hard to tell if he was making a joke. Deitel made as if to respond, but Terah put her hand on his arm and just shook her head. Instead, the doctor took a drink of wine from the cup that never seemed to go empty, thanks to Filotoma’s never-ending parade of servers, and just listened. The Greek took a long drink from a goblet and then wiped the excess wine from his thick black mustache.
“Re gamoti!” he shouted angrily. “Xerxes should have been taught that he could use that fleet for something besides delivering his curry breaths to get chopped up. Breaking heads instead of breaking breads. Bah. Where is profit? It’s breaking wind, that’s what it is.”
Filotoma scooped up a half-dozen olives in his large paw and chewed them up, expertly spitting out the pits.
“That was where Leonidas failed. Always be ready to show your opponent that he can put his monkey where his mouth is.”
The wine almost came through Rucker’s nose.
“So many opportunities,” Filotoma lamented, in a tone as emotional as if he’d received news of the death of a family member. There were tears.
Deitel’s expression said he wondered if Filotoma was a madman.
“This is normal,” Rucker whispered.
Filotoma blew his nose and motioned around the table.
“But I talk too much of myself. It was a long day keeping my foes to the grindstone,” he said. “Let’s eat, drink, enjoy! Opa!”
It was hard not to opa. Filotoma’s villa on Nisida Pithou—Donkey Island—was a hedonists’ delight. Modern and ancient pools were lined by sculpted gardens that would put the best in Paris to shame, and there were two steam rooms as well. An ornate fire pit blazed night and day, while clay ovens turned out a variety of breads around the clock. Every room was a hodgepodge of decorating styles from all over the world, but they all had in common lounging chairs with piles of cushions and a wet bar within easy reach. It was a chaotic clash of art and knickknacks from all over the world, an opulent homage to sybaritic excess.
The villa wasn’t just Filotoma’s home, it was also his place of business. The giant Greek had once heard that some men separate their work and their leisure time. He’d puzzled for an hour over these “half life men,” as he called them. Then he decided it was pointless to try to un
derstand their ways.
Launches from Volos arrived on Filotoma’s private island at least twice a day carrying messengers, investors, traders, buyers, and sellers. He had an entire suite in the villa where tickers and wireless sets brought him news from the stock exchanges. As often as not he conducted business meetings swimming naked in one of his pools simply because it put him at an advantage in negotiations.
The villa was the first place Deitel saw anything remotely resembling the classical Hellenic city he expected. He certainly didn’t see any of it when the Graf von Götzen made port in Volos. From high above in the German luxury airship, Volos certainly looked like a typical Greek port city. But once they landed, he saw there was very little aside from the signs that suggested the city’s pedigree.
Built on the innermost point of the Pagasetic Gulf and at the foot of Mount Pelion, Volos was the only outlet toward the sea from Thessaly. But more important, the city was the crossroads of trade between Europe, the Middle East, and Asia. Consequently, Deitel expected a blending of these traditions in the city’s architecture. Instead he saw a modern—very modern—city layout and buildings that weren’t much older than what he’d seen in Austin.
Volos, he learned, was one of the very few modern cities in Greece, dating back barely fifty years. It was built near rather than on the ancient trade cities of Demetrias, Pagasae, and Iolcos.
The taxi driver who took the four of them from the airship port to the harbor docks in Volos said his brother-in-law would be glad to give Deitel a tour of the ruins in the Volos suburbs. But wouldn’t he rather take a ferry tour of the many islands in the bay, including the Sporades Islands, where the tourist women love to sunbathe au naturel?
When he saw Deitel’s appalled expression, the driver offered that there was another island that only men tourists visited, but it would cost a few extra drachmas to get there. The doctor had taken to carrying a small brown paper bag since New York; he used it to breathe into. The thirty-minute boat ride from the Volos docks to Nisida Pithou wasn’t nearly as distressing.
“Ah, I am again with the rambling,” Filotoma said, snatching up a mutton bone and tearing off a piece of the perfectly roasted meat.
Deitel had been surprised—and then ravenous—when he saw the meal Filotoma had prepared for their arrival. Filotoma did nothing small, and hospitality was among the greatest virtues of the Greek people, who had invented everything from philosophy to the steam engine, according to Filotoma.
For Deitel, the hospitality restored some sense of sanity. A long, hot soak in a bathroom larger than his Rio apartment and a change into the light linen evening wear provided by his host, and the physical toll of the past week faded into the background.
On arrival they’d gotten word from Chuy. By means of the smallest portable radio set Deitel had ever seen—it was no bigger than a suitcase—they’d spoken to the Brazilian copilot, who was now en route to Volos after having spent half the day in Rome getting the Raposa back from Italian authorities. Chuy said would be landing in Volos in a few hours.
The meal had started with ample pourings of red and white wine, along with fresh grapes, figs, and olives, and then the presentation of a flaming iron pan of saganaki—scorched and bubbly goat’s cheese splashed with lemon juice and pepper. Shrimp and mussels saganaki followed, as well as lamb chops and roast mutton legs, chicken souvlaki, dolmas, spanakopita, trahana, the spicy cheese spread they called tyrokafteri, cuttlefish in wine, and mussel stew.
Chuy joined them just after the fruits and saganaki.
Deitel noticed that Rucker and Terah were sitting very close to one another. She looked dazzling in the teasing silk dress Filotoma had provided. He suspected Filotoma had closets with sexy dresses in all manner of sizes.
One of Filotoma’s assistants whispered something in his ear.
“Bah! Tell them to eat their own ropes,” he said, shooing the assistant away.
“Pardon,” their host said to the table then. “I am trying to set up factory in Karachi to make authentic Greek relics for homes and gardens, and local union bosses want a piece of poor Nick because they think those jobs belong to them. As if it’s their money building factory. Then they complain because I pay twenty drachmas a day to workers in Karachi while they want two hundred for same work.”
Deitel didn’t realize he was raising his hand like it was a classroom.
“But twenty drachmas—this is barely two pounds or one dollar per day,” he said. “Aren’t you taking advantage? And aren’t these jobs that would benefit your fellow Greeks?”
Filotoma shook his head and laughed heartily.
“Ah. Poor boy. Nick is not in business to give people jobs. I am in business to make money. That is why unions here can eat their own ropes. If I could get clockwork machine to make these authentic Greek relics that I sell for fabulous low prices, I would.” He laughed. “Twenty drachmas is peanut feed to you, but would you rather those in Karachi get paid nothing for doing nothing? Reason labor price is so good for Nick is because they have too many people and not enough jobs. I give them good jobs and I pay thirty-eight percent more than local average because I want the best workers, not the stupid-heads. They make more money, they save more, come back in twenty years and they have their own businesses.”
Rucker and Chuy were nodding. Deitel had his doubts.
“Enough with poor Nick’s troubles,” Filotoma said. “I want to hear more about this spear. I may want to buy one.”
“You can’t buy the Spear of Destiny,” Rucker said around a bite of spanikopita.
“Pffft. Everything has price tag. But fine, lease it, whatever,” Filotoma said. “Tell us more.”
Renault took a long drink of his wine and brushed his long bangs out of his eyes. A tall, thin man in his early sixties, he looked younger by decades because of his full head of hair, which was only lightly touched by gray and because of his perpetually bemused expression. He was a man with far more smile than frown wrinkles—a lifetime of good character and humor accented his natural vitality.
“It wasn’t long after Cascus Antonius’s legion at Dacia was lost to time that forgeries started turning up,” Renault began. “The stories hold that the Spear of Destiny is said to have exchanged hands among some of the greatest conquerors and rulers in history: Theodosius, Attila, Justinian, Charlemagne, and even Napoleon. The legends are now so enmeshed, intertwined, and overlapping that sorting it out completely is almost impossible.”
“Oh foo,” Filotoma said.
“Almost impossible, monsieur. I believe I have retraced the path of the true spear after Antonius vanished from the world.”
Everyone at the table was listening intently. They’d heard all the folk tales. Now they wanted to hear the real story.
“After it was lost in Dacia,” Renault began, “the spear was next found in the hands of Mauritius, the third century A.D. legionnaire who commanded the Theban Legion, which was headquartered in Egypt. How he came to possess it, I cannot say. But Mauritius carried the spear and he knew what it was. It was said that he drew his strength and faith from its presence. He and his legionnaires were all Christians. They swore fealty to God and the empire, but to God first.”
Renault took another sip of wine.
“This was put to the test in A.D. 286, the year Emperor Maximilian ordered Mauritius’s Theban Legion to march to Gaul to make war on the rebelling tribes in Burgundy. When the legionnaires learned that the rebel tribes were Christian, they defied the emperor’s orders. At the Swiss town of St. Maurice-en-Valais, then known as Agaunum, Maximilian ordered the Theban Legion to be decimated—one in ten were put to death. After, they again refused to make war on their fellow Christians, and were again decimated. This continued until every member of the Theban Legion—6,600 men—were killed.”
“Would that every Christian were as dedicated to nonviolence,” Terah whispered.
“Mais oui. Thus is the positive power of their faith to represent the good and the courage to do what i
s right within each of us, even in the face of evil and tyranny,” Renault said. “The faith in the spear, however, is sadly misplaced. It was not blessed by being washed in the blood of Jesus.”
Servers poured more wine.
Renault grimaced, tugged his ear, and drank some more.
“Now clearly, much of this is legend is shrouded in the tales passed down. Exaggerated. Tall tales, as you say in Texas,” the French historian said. “From early on after the death of Jesus—however you want to see him, good rabbi or savior of mankind—the spear was used to enslave the minds of men, turning them into sort of mindless servants. It was used to raise the dead. But not like Jesus supposedly did with Lazarus. No, it allowed the dead to walk among the living. It did not bring them back to life, you see, but rather made the dead rise. In the case of others who harnessed its power and focused it—by means unknown to me—it was used to grant the living immortality provided they fed on the life force of others.”
Renault laughed uncomfortably. “Of course, these stories are mixed in with peasant tales and religious whispers, making it not entirely clear how much is truth and how much is fantasy.”
“Keep going,” Rucker said. “Please.”
“It’s said that is how it was used by so many conquerors. They used its power of death,” Renault said.
The food didn’t seem all that appetizing anymore. Filotoma lead the group out by one of his pools and they lounged about under the stars.
“Professor,” Terah said, “if the trail of the spear is so historically confusing—maybe even intentionally so—how did you trace it forward after you’d figured out its origin?”
Renault retrieved his satchel and pulled out a stack of papers, maps, sketches, and old paintings. He spread them out on a table. Filotoma had one of his house servants bring lamps.
“After several failed efforts at retracing the steps of the true spear after Antonius died—dead ends, false trails, unfounded rumors, misinformation, unreliable legends—it came to me to simply look for just the shape of the original spear in historical descriptions and depictions,” Renault said, showing them the painting of the true spear, a deadly twelve-inch pilum. “That’s when I found this.”
Death's Head Legion: The Spear of Destiny: Part Two of Three Page 10
