by Don Dewey
Occasionally she wondered if any of her daughters were long lived. But she was here, and they were somewhere else, and therefore not her concern, or at least she’d convinced herself of that. They were always their fathers’ children, never hers to raise and care for, to hold and love. She was chattel, and her daughters from earlier identities were such by now as well. Her current daughters would be under a man’s authority soon enough. She had an ability, a survival mechanism, which allowed her to dismiss that which wasn’t current; that which had no bearing on her directly, and in a timely manner.
One night after too much wine, and taking her almost brutally in his desire, her husband slept soundly beside her. She was smarter, stronger, more aware of surroundings and people, better at business, and in every way she could think of, simply better than him. She lay in the dark, thinking back over the years, and decided she had had enough of being a woman in this stinking man’s world. Her night vision was keen, and she looked at him for a long time. Men, she thought. Your lives are so gonad related, they even control your actions. She finished aloud, howbeit very quietly, “Fools.”
He must have realized she wasn’t asleep, or perhaps he heard her. He asked her what was wrong. “You’ve been an adequate husband, as men go. I’ve had several, and many children as well, all beautiful girls, many of them older than you.”
He sat up in their bed and stared at her, then started laughing. “What a mind you have, my love,” he got out between the gasps of laughter. “Many husbands! Ha-ha, well, I shall like to meet them sometime then.”
“But you will not, husband. I’ve had enough of this place, and of men, and of you. Two of those husbands are dead by my hand, and the others are dead just because they grew old, as you count years.”
“Stop now,” he commanded. “You will not speak thusly. I forbid it. You’re my wife, and I will not have it.” When she started to speak again he slapped her hard across the face, leaving his handprint bright on her cheek. She stared at him defiantly, and when he moved his arm to strike her again, she stopped his hand in hers, stopping all momentum from his arm instantly, with far more strength than he could have summoned. Shocked at her strength, he gasped out, “What…”
Her other hand gripped his throat, causing him to stop what he was saying very abruptly and gasp for a breath that would not come. “Enough husband dearest.” She spoke in a sickly sweet voice. “It is enough. You were all you could be I suppose, but think, fool. You would force yourself on me when I was so exhausted after childbirth that I feared for my life. But you had needs, great husband, so you came to my sick bed, climbed on top of me and took me, making me hate you. Don’t worry, for you wouldn’t have lived many more years anyway, so this isn’t really a great loss to you. You eat too much, drink too much, and have no respect for me or women in general.” She brushed his hands away with her other hand and gripped him hard. “Oh, you must like that,” she said, mimicking his voice as she crushed him. His pain showed in his eyes, and his lack of oxygen gave him a blue tinge. “You think as a man, die like a man, husband!” There was clear derision in her voice. Just before he fainted she told him what a lovely shade of blue he was. She kept gripping his throat in her small but strong hand, barely able to hold enough of it to choke the life from him, but barely enough was still enough. Barely alive is still alive, and barely dead is fully dead. She decided that “barely alive” had no meaning, as she choked the life from him with even more passion, crushing his windpipe. After she’d watched the life fade from his body she shook him once and tossed his body aside as she had her own robes before bed. “Darling husband.” She glanced at his corpse sprawled on the floor. “You won’t even miss me.” She was done with a world in which she was always defending herself against men, against power, against things which might, in a better, different world, not be issues at all.
***
When that decision was made, she gathered up some coins, some small amount of gold they’d hidden away against future need, the jewels she’d acquired over the years of which her husband had known nothing, and walked through the quiet village in the dark.
She snuck into the catacombs, walking further into the dark than anyone she knew had ever gone, for these were very old and somewhat feared. The dust was deep and undisturbed, with the weight of decades, even centuries weighing down on her. She sneezed several times as she walked on, and very carefully brushed out her footprints with a length of sheepskin she’d brought for this very purpose.
She sealed off a section with heavy blocks, and lay down very carefully, arranging her body with great care, knowing it would likely stay that way for a long time. She was always amazed at the weight she could move when she had to do so. None of her men could ever have understood or accepted the fact of her strength. Nobody could find me here but the Minotaur. This was not her first time to skip ahead like this, from the present to a future time. Crete didn’t fit her very well, like a poorly cut garment that sagged where it should cling and clung where it should be loose. While she didn’t know for sure that she would awaken, she did know for sure that she was fed up with this life, and wanted to live it no more. Tears slid down her cheeks as she tried to not think about her daughters, and the connection she hadn’t been allowed to develop with them. She began to breath more slowly, then very shallowly, and then stopped breathing altogether.
Chapter 6
Session 3
The following day the reporter rejoined his host for breakfast as he had the previous morning. Again it was a lavish meal, and today the reporter ate the exotic, fresh fruit, fresh baked bread and tender meats because he had to eat, not because he enjoyed it. This game was macabre, and he was getting more and more nervous about it all. Who kidnaps someone to tell them a ridiculous story after all?
And who burglarizes an apartment to bring a captive his own clothing to wear? That filled him with indignation again, for it was yet another violation. He would remember that, along with the kidnapping and the assaults of his captivity. He assured himself there would be an accounting for his misuse.
His host however, was warming to his daily monologues. “Today we shall learn of a great warrior, a giant of a man, who will amaze you.” His eyes narrowed as he looked at his captive guest. His slightly wrinkled forehead and something about his eyes gave a strange look of age to this youthful, vigorous man. One could almost believe his crazy claims.
“You sound as though you admire him. Friends?”
“No, just acquaintances, and of late, on very different sides of some business ventures. He and his partner are not friends. But they do deserve some attention. This man of whom I speak, Maximus, is a grand warrior of several eras, and I’m forced to admit that his prowess extends to this day and time as well. I do admire him in a way, and I’m not one to admire many. He’s more of a respected adversary.” Again he flashed that grim smile that displayed no humor at all.
Chapter 7
Maximus,
Rome and Beyond…
Highly prized by his own Centurion and appreciated by his fellow soldiers, Maximus was the finest of warriors. When Maximus fought with you, the victory was almost assured. None could recall him losing a battle. He was old for a swordsman, but he was the best. He was what some would label, “stolid.” He was solid but not fat, hard muscle without a swimmer’s slenderness, and really didn’t have much of a neck. He was a wrestler, and was built well for it. His black hair was cut close, and his very Italian roots showed in his features. His aquiline nose wasn’t overdone, but was noticeable. There was strength in every part of him; no matter the task at hand, he exuded power.
He had been slashed, stabbed, nearly gutted once, but he always healed. Even the scars, which would have been marks of prestige in his sub-culture of soldiers, healed and disappeared.
Sometimes he loved showing off his sword that conquered the world. His Roman short sword, his own creation, could both sweep and slash, and with its sharpened tip, it could stab like a javelin. Its length could le
t it get inside the wide sweeps of scimitars and other less precise blades, making it the deadliest weapon on the planet.
Other times he regretted that he had designed such a blade, for he’d taken serious wounds from it on the battlefield, as other armies copied it for their own use. Once, when he’d been skewered on one, and then immediately slashed on his shoulder, he was sure death was close. Though he was right handed, he used his uninjured left hand to grasp his sword and he fought on. He became a legend to his legion that day. For the next week he was sure he would die as he fought high fevers and screamed from the poultices put inside his grievous wounds. But he lived. His strength returned and he went back to march with his legion, second in command only to Sergius Paulus, a fine commander.
He realized, with his years and his reputation, that he had finally outlived his time. He took slow, careful steps to deal with that issue. His wife was getting older, and he wasn’t. He was a soldier and lived a hard life, yet didn’t age. Nor did he display any scars from his many wounds, which he knew perplexed his wife. She was an intelligent woman, but knew better than to question her husband much. His wife lived a good life from what he earned, but seemed to have aged noticeably each time he returned from a campaign. His last wife, in a city a great distance away, had died by his own hand as he left, for she had not pleased him. This wife was different, and he grieved that he wouldn’t see her again. He had moments of sorrow as he watched her age and knew her life would be short. Already having determined that this was to be his last battle, he didn’t have to think about love, now or ever again. It was so desperately painful to love someone you knew you would outlive by many lifetimes. Still, he had arranged for her life to be as comfortable as possible after his departure. He had stockpiled gold and silver from his campaigns and from his private fights, which he always won, and put them where she would find them fairly soon. There were stacks of salt also, since often it was with salt that he and the other soldiers were paid. And Maximus was always worth his salt. He kissed her goodbye as he left to join his legion for a new campaign against the southern barbarians.
One night in the moonless dark of the campaign trail, he rose after the moon had started to hide behind some clouds. A denarius, he thought, picturing the coin of his empire, dropping into the slot of tomorrow. He saluted the sentry he passed on his way, and took a sizable pouch of gold he had saved, in a tough leather bag, and started walking. A day later he found the caves he remembered from a campaign years before. He went in and climbed down as far as was possible into the cave system. It was dry for a cavern system, and thick with dust. There he used his great strength and the staff he brought with him to move some rather large stones. Dead or not, he had no intention of being some animal’s supper. Beneath one stone he placed his leather bag. It was beneath the farthest stone past the narrowest area that allowed a body to pass. He committed it to memory and turned away. In the battle they marched to in three days, he would die.
He marched with his companions, telling coarse jokes and passing the time as military men had always done, and still do. Each man knew he could be marching to his last battle. But they were Romans, and they were soldiers in service to Caesar, so they marched.
Sergius Paulus was on his horse at the front of the column, and Maximus marched next to him. Sergius sat tall on his horse, even though he was barely over five feet tall. Horses of late were a rare and coveted commodity, for most had been sent with the legions fighting the great Hun hoards. It seemed the empire had no lack of enemies. So Maximus marched. “Ho Maximus,” called Sergius. “Another glorious battle for the Emperor.” He looked at his old comrade shrewdly. “Or is it just another day to fight?”
“Glory to Caesar,” called back Maximus to his old friend. “I’ve a bad feeling about this one though. It could well be my last. I’m not so young anymore, my captain.”
“Nonsense,” shot back Sergius. “No man of this six thousand can outfight you, no matter your age. You’ll fight and kill, and have the strength to go whoring with the men when we return.” He laughed as he said it, believing it to be true. “Is your arm well enough from that deep wound you took last season?”
“Aye it ‘tis, sir. It wasn’t so deep as you thought. And as to how we fare today, your will, my lord.” Maximus displayed the faintest of smiles. In that age, he had phenomenal teeth, straight and white. Maximus gave a rare, toothy grin. “About that whoring comment, you know my wife, right? Ha-ha, those days are long gone, and rightly so. By the way, we all live just long enough. My father understood that. He told me once I was just tall enough, because when I stood my feet barely reached the ground.” They both laughed. “We each live our lives long enough to reach our deaths. Seriously, my comrade.”
The lines were drawn up as the Legion faced its enemies across a great plain. With perhaps a mile between them, each side looked at potential death or maiming, or potential glory and life. “How many do you think, Maximus?”
“Too many,” the tall Roman answered tersely. “There are thousands more of them than of us.” He wiped sweat and dirt from his face and neck. This armor had serious disadvantages. We could die from the heat before we reach the enemy. Maximus worked with his armor and tried to let some air get into his breastplate to cool him, and not for the first time.
“Well, if it was going to be easy they wouldn’t send us now, would they?” His commander and friend laughed back at him, wondering why this great swordsman, fearless in every way, was so uneasy. It spooked Sergius Paulus, but he shrugged it off and returned to his duty. He led his troops with bravery and honor. With sword raised high, and trumpets ready to relay his command to charge, Sergius cut the perfect figure of a warrior: hammered helmet ablaze in the sun, blood red cloak flowing over his shoulders and the hindquarters of his mare. He leaned close to her ear, patted the animal one more time to steady her. “Do me true, girl.” His sword flashed high, catching the sunlight, and he roared, “For Rome and Caesar!” The trumpets sounded the charge.
They charged, six thousand strong, tired, hot, sweating their salt away. Unfortunately they charged into over eight thousand crazed barbarians, waving axes, picks, and twenty foot pikes, roaring straight at them. Nearly fifteen thousand screaming, cursing men and thundering horses came together in a clash that seemed to drown out the noise itself, numbing the hearing of those within it. Hundreds were cut down in the first onslaught, limbs gone, hearts stopped, some knocked senseless until someone stabbed them to make sure they stayed down. One tall, strong Roman fought his way through the hoard, saddened by the sudden death of his long time commander and friend, Sergius, just two feet to his right. He slashed with such strength at the man who had cut Sergius down that his sword shattered and the enemy’s shield split, numbing his arm. He moved close and took a fallen comrade’s sword, still weaving above the body it was planted in, like a plant in the wind, and with his next stroke detached the head of his friend’s killer from his body, which is by no means as easy as an amateur might believe. Even a headsman, with a huge ax and a target neck held rigidly still at execution might require two, or even three strikes. But Maximus fought with a vengeance, and his great strength sent this particular head flying with but one stroke. He kept going. He would drop an enemy with the swing of his heavy shield, while moving inside the sweep of the long blades of another enemy, skewering him. On and on he fought, losing himself in the bloodlust of the moment. If they’d known the terms, they’d have called him a Tasmanian Devil amid the chickens.
Emerging from the far side of the melee, he chased a small group of barbarians who had decided it was healthier to hide and come back later. He let them move faster than he did. He could have caught them, for he could run for hours. Even though there were several of them, he could have killed them all, such a warrior was Maximus Palamos. Yet he continued until he was out of sight of the battle, and went on to the caves he had recently visited.
After moving deeply into his hide, he lay down and made himself comfortable. He dropped his a
rmor in a pile and arranged his weapons. Sad that a man such as I would have had enough of life. He gave his leather pouch of gold coins and jewels a gentle kick and said to it. “If there is an afterlife, you could be helpful, but I don’t think I’ll be needing you again.” He lay down and began to breath more slowly, then very shallowly, and then stopped breathing altogether. The heart of the greatest warrior in the history of Rome simply stopped.
***
“Ah, another of your pure people dies.” Wanting to forestall any attack from his host, he continued quickly. “Please don’t misunderstand me. While I really do find this all very interesting, I don’t quite get it. They all seem to die, and that doesn’t seem to fit into what you started with.”
Those bottomless, dead eyes stared at him for a moment, and then, “I will continue. Maximus lay dead for many years, his body safe in the caves from men and animals, hidden away with care before he ‘skipped.’”
“Wait.” Kenneth raised his hand holding the pen he was using just slightly, to signal his lack of understanding. “Skipped?”
With a sigh his host stared him into silence. “You’ll recall that I said we can move toward the future differently than you?” When Kenneth had nodded, he continued. “You move through time by seconds, while we can move through it by decades or more. Maximus lay still until Rome was no longer a world power. He awakened several times, and each time spent just a few months to a year awake, living off the land and making very few contacts with people. He was convinced each time that the world hadn’t changed much, so he returned to his sanctuary for another skip. He skipped in and out until the Renaissance had come, and the world had mellowed somewhat. Then he rose. I believe he lay as long as his body would allow each time without inviting true death to overtake it.
