The Last Roman: Book One: Exile

by B. K. Greenwood

  Isabella took a step forward and drove her fist into his throat. As he crumbled to his knees, she grabbed the back of his head with one hand and smashed his face with her knee. He dropped his pistol, falling back onto the descending staircase.

  Marcus pulled open the driver's door of the truck, slipping inside, was pleased to see the key fob sitting in the center console. He looked back at the escalator through the windshield and saw half a dozen men running toward Isabella, each one reaching into their jackets. She started down the stairs and pulled a handgun from her coat, taking a moment to glance back over her shoulder. A woman standing on the ascending stairway saw her pistol and let out a piercing scream that immediately scattered the other shoppers.

  One man stepped onto the escalator, intent on following her down. There was no one between them, so Isabella calmly raised her weapon and fired off two shots, catching the man in the abdomen and chest. His body tumbled forward, landing several steps above her. As she turned, several men sprinted toward her on the ground floor, weapons drawn. She dropped to her knees as the bullets plunked into the side of the escalator. She spun and fired two shots at a man who had started up the steps, one round catching him in the kneecap, the bone immediately exploding. Marcus could see the sparks as rounds bounced off the metal panels all around her. He laid on the horn, hoping to distract her assailants.

  Isabella swiveled her weapon forward, then saw another man trying to sprint down the steps, firing as he went. Leveling her pistol, she fired three rounds, the slugs smashing into his torso. He toppled forward, his momentum carrying his body down on top of her. She squeezed up against the railing and pushed the body down beside her. By now, the escalator was nearing the bottom, so she got ready to exit. Unfortunately, two men were standing less than five feet away, guns leveled. The closer of the two smirked, his white teeth peeking through his thin lips.

  By now, Marcus had the truck in gear and barreling towards them. Only one of them realized what was about to happen, but not in time to do anything about it. He flew a good fifteen feet and smashed into the window of a nearby electronics shop, the plate-glass shattering as his body tumbled through a display of large televisions. The second man had jumped just before being hit, so the grill only caught his legs, and it pitched him over the top of the truck. The man tumbled across the roof and fell into the bed of the truck with a thud.

  The truck's oversized tires screeched to a halt, and Marcus poked his head out the window.

  "Hurry, there's a dozen more."

  Isabella stepped off the escalator, grimacing as she sprinted around the back of the truck. Bullets peppered the vehicle as Marcus leaned over and opened the door. She leaped inside while he stomped on the gas. He spun the wheel frantically, rolled through the shattered glass, and barreled down the now empty mall.

  "Well, this is much less conspicuous," Marcus said, slamming on the brakes and spinning the wheel, fishtailing the truck around a corner. Unable to straighten up, he slammed into an ATM in the middle of the walkway.

  Isabella reached for the grab handle above the back window, just as the window shattered, bullets slamming into the dash. In the rear-view mirror, Marcus could see the man he had hit with the truck clinging to the bed with one hand and aiming a pistol with the other. Marcus slammed on the brakes, the truck screeching to a halt. The man slammed into the back of the cab. Isabella leveled her pistol and fired several shots through the back window, knocking him back.

  Marcus sped up again, navigated another bend, and tried to dodge the various stands and booths occupying the center of the mall. He did a horrible job, and within seconds the truck had smashed into several stalls, showering the front of the truck with a range of trinkets. An assortment of earrings, key chains, and cell phone parts stuck to the wiper blades as they hurtled toward the exit. Just before crashing through what appeared to be a large glass wall, a pair of automatic doors slid open. The truck's front caught the door frame, ripping it from the wall and splintering the massive panels. With the metal frame clinging to the outside of the vehicle, Marcus swerved to avoid a hideous piece of art near the sidewalk. His evasive maneuver took them across a short patch of grass and up over a shallow mound.

  "Oh, shit," Marcus muttered.

  He glanced over at Isabella, who was once again clinging to the grab handle. The massive vehicle cleared the knoll, rocketed through the air, and crashed into a vacant bus stand near the foot of the embankment. The tenacious mall door frame clattered to the ground, along with the shattered elements of the ill-fated booths. Marcus turned the wheel and slammed on the brakes as the vehicle slid into a car parked in a nearby handicap space.

  Marcus glanced over at Isabella and hit the gas, the truck scraping its way free of the other car. As they left the parking lot, Marcus waved at the stunned pedestrians who had watched this display of automotive prowess.

  "Left here."

  An audible hiss filled the compartment as she directed him through a local neighborhood. The truck was sputtering and near death by the time she directed him into the open garage of a nondescript building. As the vehicle lurched to a stop, several men ran behind them and quickly pulled the paneled door shut, leaving them alone only with the fading protests of the dying truck.

  Isabella shook her head and opened the door. "Next time, I drive."

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  If there ever was a religious war of terror, it was the crusades.

  —Moustapha Akkad

  Saudi Arabia

  1105 A.D.

  The horse was dead; it just didn't know it. Thomas clung to the beast as it stumbled up a shallow dune. He would have left it behind and continued on foot, but he was in no better shape than the horse. It had been at least two days since his last drink of water, and he did not know how long it had been since he had eaten. But hunger was the last of his concerns.

  A soft breeze drifted across the barren desert. It was too dark to see that it was barren, but he knew it was. He had seen a hundred miles of this desert, and that was barren too. He could walk for another hundred miles, and that would be barren. He was sure the entire earth was barren.

  As he dozed off, the earth gave way beneath him. He reached out to keep himself from falling when he realized it was just the horse collapsing. The two of them slid to the bottom of a sandy bowl.

  As the sand stopped shifting around him, Thomas lifted his head and looked around. The horse was lying across his leg, its chest slowly rising and falling. Thomas did not have the energy to dig himself out, so he laid his head back and gazed into the sparkling sky. The moon was directly overhead, staring down at him like a curious child. It was clear and bright and beautiful. Everything Thomas wasn't. The damn thing reminded him of things he didn't want to remember. He tried closing his eyes, but they were too dry, and he had to keep them open.

  Thomas kept thinking that he should be dead. He should have died a long time ago and should never have seen the things he had seen, should never have done the things he had done. He should never have found Rebecca, and God knows he should never have lost her. And if God existed, he should never see the morning sun.

  Maybe that death might finally happen. He could feel his body giving in to the mortality that had stalked him for so many years. He thought maybe his nightmare was finally over, that he could stop running from his fate. But deep down, he knew he would come back again. It had been three hundred years since Rebecca died, and it never ended. The pain would never end.

  The moon disappeared, replaced by a pair of shifting ghosts. Thomas was confused. He did not think angels wore robes. Then again, he was not expecting angels. The two murmured something to each other and then leaned over and pulled him from beneath the dead horse. He tried to stand, but with no success. He would have crumpled if not for their sure hands.

  "Do not worry, my brother," one of them said, "we will be your legs this night."

  "Have you come to take my soul?" Thomas's voice crackled as he looked into the dark cowl.

&n
bsp; "No, we are just herding our sheep."

  Thomas lay on a bed of pillows behind a wicker partition, staring up at the pale blue and white stripes of a canvas roof. He was still struggling to sit up when a woman appeared from behind the screen. She wore a black robe, with a thin black veil covering her face. She carried a pitcher which she used to fill a cup from a nearby table. She handed it to him and disappeared.

  It was the best-tasting water he had ever had. He leaned over and poured himself a second cup.

  "Not too much, my friend." The French accent was thick.

  Thomas looked up to find a tall man standing beside the bed. His lean face was tan, except where a pale scar ran across one cheek. He too, wore a black robe, and a black scarf over his head, held in place by a triple ringlet. A thin black mustache sat beneath his crooked nose.

  "Tastes good." Thomas took another sip.

  "Yes…the longer you go without something, the better it is when you finally get it."

  "Where am I?"

  "The desert. I would have thought you'd figure that out."

  "Where in the desert?"

  "The ocean is ten days' ride in that direction." He pointed to his right, then to his left. "Or thirty days' ride in that direction. Jerusalem is fifteen days' ride back from where you came." He pointed straight ahead. "That way."

  "Fifteen days?"

  "With a horse…and you have no horse."

  Thomas nodded and took another drink.

  "Where were you going?"

  "I don't know." Thomas set down the cup.

  "Well then, you may already be there."

  "Possibly."

  "You are fortunate. We have a tradition in our tribe. Any man found wandering in the desert may stay with us and earn his freedom."

  "How long does that take?"

  "One year."

  "And that makes me lucky?"

  "Most other tribes would kill you on the spot."

  "I still don't understand the lucky part."

  "Good, I'm glad to see your sense of humor was not shriveled up like a raisin." He motioned toward the end of the bed. "This robe is now yours. It will be much cooler than the rags you were wearing."

  "Thank you."

  "You are welcome. You have one day to recover, but tomorrow you must join the others."

  "Others?"

  "Yes, the other men who work in this community…the single men. What is your name?"

  "Thomas."

  "Thomas. I have never met a Thomas. My name is Alabar al-wabib. I am the Khalid of this tribe."

  Thomas shook his extended hand. He started to leave but stopped.

  "One last thing, Thomas. Do not speak to the women. They may not interact with the non-believers."

  "Yes, of course."

  Thomas spent the next two weeks learning his new life. Most of the other men were suspicious of him but fair. As expected, they gave him the menial of jobs. Thomas slept in a tent with the other single men and was never allowed to go anywhere by himself.

  The camp was built inside a large wadi, surrounded by a labyrinth of river reeds and desert plants. A half-dozen palm trees towered over the tents. A large pool of spring-fed water was the lifeblood of their existence. The resulting foliage provided an abundance of dates and fruits, as well as building materials. Thomas learned quickly how desirable the location was.

  He had been with the tribe for a little over a month when the first raiders struck. Sohail and Thomas had just finished their late-night watch and were lying in their tent. The two sentinels, having just gone on duty, were awake and alert. One of them sounded the alarm by blowing his horn. Thomas scrambled from the tent, along with a dozen other half-dressed men. The others wielded scimitars while Thomas stood there empty-handed. He had no time to ponder his misfortune, because one raider galloped around the tent and into their midst.

  The other men scattered, trying to avoid the slashing blade of the marauder. Thomas ducked below his arm, grabbing his wrist as he swept by. Thomas yanked him from the horse and heard his arm snap as he crashed face-first into the ground, the sand muffling his scream. Stepping on his writhing body, Thomas picked up his discarded sword and ran toward the other men.

  They were forming a semi-circle near the edge of the spring, with the women and children huddled behind them. Dozens of mounted men were riding through the camp, cutting down those who were trying to make it to the safety of the ring. Thomas could see a mother guiding two children toward the group. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the flash of a gray horse as it bore down upon them. Increasing to a full sprint, Thomas angled toward the woman and arrived just before the horseman. He stepped up onto a boulder, leaping into the air and smashing into the raider's chest. Tumbling to the ground, Thomas eventually came to rest on top of him, both of them having lost their weapons. Before he could react, Thomas grabbed his head with both his hands and snapped his neck.

  Standing, Thomas looked for his lost sword. As he picked it up, he saw the woman and her children disappear into the circle of men. The horsemen, left with no stragglers to attack, were now milling about the camp. Thomas counted between forty and fifty attackers, nearly twice as many men as lived in the camp.

  Thomas made his way to the others, watching the raiders. Sohail was the first to greet him.

  "Thomas! I am so glad you made it!"

  "Yeah, thanks for giving me a sword," Thomas said sarcastically.

  "Oh, you are not supposed to have a sword."

  They both looked down at his scimitar.

  "Tonight, we make an exception." Alabar appeared by his side. "That was my sister you saved. I would say we are now even."

  "We might want to get through the night, first."

  "We'll be fine now. They'll not attack, now that we are ready."

  "What'll they do?"

  "They'll rummage through our belongings and leave by morning."

  "And you're going to let them do that?" Thomas studied his face in the moonlight.

  "That is what we usually do."

  "Maybe that's why they keep attacking."

  Sohail was quietly watching the exchange. Thomas could tell that Alabar was debating what he should do. Thomas helped him decide.

  "Give me two minutes, then form up your men and go straight for that tent." Thomas pointed toward the tallest tent in the middle of the camp.

  "What are you going to do?"

  "Even the odds."

  Thomas turned and jogged toward the gray horse standing over his dead rider. He grabbed his reins and hopped up into the strange saddle, spinning the horse toward the raiding party. As he had expected, most of them had dismounted and disappeared into the various tents. Thomas assumed the leader would be in the largest tent, hoping to gain the finest bounty.

  Thomas spurred the horse forward, guiding him toward the front of the tent where three horses were milling around. He ducked as the horse burst through the opening, trampling one man as he tried to exit with an armful of gem-studded goblets. Slipping from the mount, Thomas dodged the scimitar thrust in his direction. He punched the attacker in the face, probably breaking his nose. Not satisfied, Thomas ran him through with his blade. That's when the third man set upon him.

  Unfortunately, Thomas was not used to fighting with scimitars and did not realize they were better suited for slashing. He could not remove his sword from the dead man in time to meet the next attack, so he let go of the hilt and dropped to his knees. Crouched on the ground, Thomas could see a dagger inside the other man's boot. As he swept past, Thomas grabbed the blade and spun around behind him.

  Before the man could turn around, Thomas stabbed him three times in the lower back. As he fell backward, Thomas grabbed his forehead and pulled his head back. Knowing brutality was the only language these men understood, Thomas slit his throat from ear to ear. He lay his body on the ground and used the scimitar to finish the job. Grabbing a handful of hair, Thomas carried his bloody head to the exit.

  The raiders had gathered around
the tent, drawn to the cries of their leader. Thomas stepped through the opening and lifted the head toward the crowd of men. He showed it to each one, then tossed it to the ground. Thomas looked around the circle, but none of the raiders would meet his gaze.

  Thomas took a step toward the nearest man, who dropped the loot he carried and scrambled onto his horse. Within seconds, he galloped from the camp. As if on cue, Alabar suddenly appeared, leading a couple of dozen men. The raiders would have none of it and quickly joined their retreating comrade. Within seconds, only a cloud of dust remained. Alabar walked up to Thomas, his gaze dropping to the scimitar. Thomas handed him the weapon, then looked down at his bloody hands.

  "You have done this before," Alabar said as he took the sword.

  "A few times."

  "We are a peaceful people. We defend ourselves, but we do not raid others."

  "I understand that."

  He studied Thomas for a long while. "You should get cleaned up. We'll talk of this tomorrow."

  Thomas nodded and walked toward the spring, Sohail bowing as he passed.

  Thomas slept well that night, much too well.

  They were all staring at Thomas. He had awoken just after dawn and stepped from his tent to find a flurry of activity around the camp. They had disposed of all the dead bodies. The women were busy repairing the tents damaged in the attack, while the men were busy rebuilding the horses' pens.

  Thomas stood at his tent exit, trying to find Alabar. He finally spotted him near the storage tent, next to a table covered with various fruits. Thomas made his way to him, ignoring the hushed whispers that accompanied his passing. He was finishing a handful of figs as Thomas arrived.