by Bob Blink
Once again, he played back the events of the past year in his mind. On that unfortunate day, Kurt and his men had followed the one who looked more like a professor than someone who would be crawling around the mountains and in caves, to the hidden place in the foothills. They had surprised Crampton’s people there, but something had gone wrong. After the tall one had shot his employee, Kurt and his remaining investigator, Matt, had surrendered. He and Matt had been made to sit on the floor where they were guarded. The one he thought of as the professor had left for a bit, and then returned later with something to inject into them. Kurt didn’t know how long they had been out, but when they woke they were still in the cave. Except it turned out they weren’t. It was night, but when they were taken outside where horses had been waiting he could see immediately it was a different cave. He didn’t recognize the area at all.
It had been pointless to try and memorize the route they took. It had been dark that night, he had been disoriented, and only partly from the drug. Too much had happened so suddenly. Strapped on a horse of all things, he was shaken and bounced until he could hardly think. Hours later, how many he could only guess, they arrived here. Stripped of everything but the clothing they wore, the two of them were ushered into adjacent rooms. They weren’t cells exactly, but they had been primitive accommodations. The doors were secured from the outside by simple wooden bars placed across the door and held in place by notches in the stone. A lumpy candle provided the only light. A rough bed sat in one corner and a single hand sawn chair in the other. It even had bits of bark from the tree limbs from which it had been made still on the legs. An empty bucket was provided for sanitation needs. The floor was uneven stone, well worn from years of use. His impression was that the walls of the room had been erected on top of the stone slab, which seemed to be one continuous piece of granite running under the entire compound. In one corner was an old fireplace, the stones cracked and blackened from years of use. Ancient ashes still rested in the back corner, but there had been no fire inside for a long time, years maybe.
His captors had disappeared without a word. He had never seen them again. While he and Matt could communicate through the common wall between the rooms, neither could offer any explanation of where they were being held. Both were still a bit groggy from whatever had been injected into them. Escape was imperative, but they needed information before they could even consider an approach. The only view to the outside of the room was a small opening cut into the stone of the front wall about two feet to the left of the entrance that let in air and light. No glass, just a hole. He couldn’t even put his head through it, so his field of view was somewhat limited. It was night anyway. In the darkness he wouldn’t see much. Tomorrow would hopefully tell him a lot more.
The old man came the next day, a few hours after daylight. It wasn’t until weeks later that Kurt began to think of him as a priest. Kurt suspected he had no official title, but he fulfilled the role here. Dozens of children, most of them in their teens, but some only a couple of years old and a few that were approaching twenty, seemed to live here. There were other adults, maybe nine or ten, but they appeared to be assistants of some type, always following the lead of the old man. Kurt was surprised when the man couldn’t speak a word of English. Then why had they sent him? Why hadn’t they sent someone who did? The man obviously was trying to communicate with him, so why not make it easier? It was a couple of days before Kurt realized that no one here spoke any English. Somehow, the old man had managed to communicate the basic rules. They were to stay here. They would be fed, and they would not be harmed. But they mustn’t try to leave.
Twice a day they were fed mostly a vegetarian diet. Breakfast was a rough tasteless mush. Never very warm. Water to drink. Evenings they had a type of stew, with turnips and other vegetables he couldn’t identify. Never potatoes, and only very rarely with any kind of meat. When meat was present, it was lean and tough, and nothing he could recognize. The vegetables changed from day to day, but not with any pattern he had been able to see. More water to drink. Their bucket was emptied each morning, but nothing was said about allowing them to bathe.
After a week, Kurt was beginning to believe that he and Matt were to remain locked in the rooms indefinitely. Then the old man came and indicated they were to be released from their rooms, at least during the day. They would not be left alone, however. A couple of the ‘assistants’ were assigned full time to keep an eye on them. To Kurt’s surprise, the old man gave them a tour of the compound before leaving them with their ‘guards’.
His first surprise came when he discovered the room he was being kept in was typical of the entire compound. No electricity, no toilets, not a single modern convenience. All tasks were being performed strictly by manual labor. A few horses and mules could be seen scattered around the central area, and a couple of old wooden wagons. A number of windows faced into the common area with some set higher which he realized represented a second level. All roughly the same size, they were similar to the window in his room. None of these had any glass either. Poor, he thought. Really poor.
Two outer walls formed a rectangle when combined with the almost vertical sides of the mountain that formed the back and left side of the enclosure. The mountain climbed almost vertically for over one hundred feet, and then continued at least another two or three hundred feet at a slightly less steep angle. No one was going up or down that, he thought. The walls on remaining two sides were approximately fifteen feet high, and perhaps a yard thick. Mostly stone and mortar, the effort required to built it seemed beyond the abilities of the small group that occupied the compound now. Kurt wondered if the whole compound had once been a military fort. The idea gained further support when he detected areas where the walls had broken, or been breached, and later repaired mostly with earth and wood. These crude patches reflected areas these people could have fixed compared to the more sophisticated walls that had made up the original perimeter. The gate at the entrance similarly reflected a lesser sophistication. It clearly was not the original gate that had protected the enclosure. Still, it was sturdy enough, and must serve the current needs. When taken to an elevated observation tower, adjacent to the front wall, the view that greeted him was not encouraging. There was nothing, as far as he could see. Trees, and a small stream that flowed along the East Side of the wall and through the orchard, and then through the few small fields of grain and turnips that were being tilled by the inhabitants of this compound. But beyond, nothing! He knew what he was being shown. If you try to leave here, there is nowhere for you to go.
Where the hell was he? Already a nagging suspicion was beginning to form in the back of his mind. But his brain wasn’t yet ready to put it all together.
After a month, their watchers had suddenly disappeared. He and Matt were left free to wander around on their own. Even at night the doors to their rooms were left open. Apparently, it had been decided they had had time to learn that there was no place to go. The front gate was always watched, and closed at night. No one expected them to be able to get over the walls. So they were given some freedom. The simple improvements Kurt had started to make that improved the overall standard of living had probably weighed in their favor as well.
Kurt wondered about one young pretty woman who visited the compound regularly. Every week she would come, usually bringing a small bundle with her, which she must have left with someone because upon departure the bundle had disappeared. The priest greeted her with obvious pleasure, so there had to be some special connection between the two. But, he never saw her closer than across the common area, and could only surmise she might be family.
Kurt was pretty sure what had happened, impossible as it had to be. There were too many clues that said it must be. And it fit. The unexplained mysteries surrounding Crampton and some of his people. There was the mysterious gun that had led him to investigate Crampton in the first place. The total and complete lack of anything modern here. Kurt had been in some pretty backward places chasing down answe
rs to some of the mysteries that had eluded him over the years. There was always something, no matter how backwards the place. But here, nothing.
He had tried the idea out on Matt, of course. Matt thought he was nuts. No amount of trying to explain how the pieces fit swayed Matt at all. In the end, it was the need to find out that drove them to escape. That and the fact that after three months, it was pretty clear no one was coming for them. They had been left here to rot.
It took time, of course. They carefully built a travel cache. The few pieces of dried fruit they received were carefully stored away. Along with anything else that wouldn’t perish too quickly. A water skin was stolen, and put in the cache. One day, a long enough piece of a rope was added to the growing pile. Three and a half months after being left at the priest’s compound, they left.
The patched section of wall made it possible. Kurt couldn’t have made it on his own. Matt was younger and fitter and he found climbing over the repaired section of dirt and wood a minor challenge at best. At the top, he had passed the rope to Kurt and helped pull him to the top. Scraped and bleeding, Kurt had made it. Together they gone down the far side and slipped across the fields to where the rutted dirt trail lead into the distance. By morning they had come to the “T” where the trail joined the more heavily traveled road going north and south. They turned north, but continued to hide when they saw signs of other travelers approaching.
Three days later, they had to be approaching a city. The number of travelers had increased, and they were able to blend in with the almost steady stream headed their way. That night Matt tried to steal a weapon from a lone soldier they had spotted. Kurt had tried to reason with him, but Matt wanted a weapon. Even if they had seen no sign of a pursuit, he expected one. He felt he could surprise the man, knock him out, and take the sword. But it went badly. Although Matt startled the soldier when he rounded a narrow section of the road, the man was a professional. Recovering quickly, the soldier drew the weapon, and within moments Matt lay dead on the dirt road. The soldier had taken a moment to check through Matt’s clothing looking for anything of value that he could take. Hiding, Kurt watched until the soldier had left after pushing the dead body off to the side of the road.
A week later Kurt walked back into the compound where he had been held captive. He had seen enough. He still didn’t know where exactly he was. Or when. But he was certain by then that somehow they had sent him back in time. That meant he was trapped. The only hope was if they came for him. So he came back. He came back where they could find him, if they wanted to. Of course, they hadn’t returned for him.
The old priest had been elated to see him back. Expecting punishment, or at the very least to be locked away again, Kurt didn’t really care. But, they must have known he wouldn’t leave again. He had come back, after learning what they had hinted to him early on. He simply had no place to go. There was nothing left to do but fill his days with tasks he invented for himself. He designed an improved irrigation system. He made modifications to the simple carts and wagons they used. He also made better tools for tilling the fields. Little things. The projects kept him busy and made marginal improvements in the lives of those around him.
And then the first of the pains came, along with the tiredness that plagued him constantly. Now he was becoming useless. He hadn’t the energy or the drive any longer. Defeated, he knew how badly he wished they would come for him. They had won. He would give them whatever they asked. Just to go home. Home to see his daughter, the only family that had ever been worth a damn. If only he could see her once more before he died. It wouldn’t happen, of course. Discouraged, he rolled over on the cot. His mind must be going, the thing he feared most of all. But, damn it, he smelled coffee!
Chapter 13
Early Roman Empire
650 BC
I was surprised how badly Morris had deteriorated. At seventy-one years of age, Kurt Morris had been solid, perhaps a bit over-weight at a little over two hundred pounds. Now, slightly more than a year later, weight reduced by hardship, diet, and illness, he was barely one hundred and sixty pounds. A flicker of pain showed in his eyes and he rolled over and took note of the steaming mug of coffee that sat on the coarse table next to his cot. I had gone to a lot of trouble to find the brand he liked best and to bring the means to prepare the brew all the way here. Still, I needed something to bridge the gap that was sure to exist between us. His eyes shifted from the mug, turning in my direction coming to rest as he found me sitting in the heavy wooden chair that I had quietly moved closer to his cot.
“So, I was right,” he snarled shifting to a sitting position, his pale skinny legs resting on the stone floor of the room.
I waited. I knew this wasn’t going to be easy. In fact, there was a good chance Morris would be angry enough to refuse to tell me anything, even given a chance to go home, the strongest enticement I could offer him.
“You bastard!” He looked again at the mug, contents cooling in the late evening chill. We had let him rest at the request of the priest, who told us what had happened, and who had indicated that Morris would wake and want to eat something before turning in for the night. “What is this supposed to be? A bribe?”
“How about a peace offering?” was my response.
Anger flared in his eyes. He spit on the floor to indicate his defiance. “Screw you! You people are responsible for the death of two of my people. And you have held me prisoner here for over a year. And now you want to smooth it all over. What do you really want?”
Silent, I considered the best way to approach him. Platitudes and meaningless apologies weren’t going to accomplish anything. Not with Morris. He would have to know I meant whatever I said. And he had to accept his role in all that had happened. “I think the responsibility for those deaths falls to several people, yourself included.”
“That’s a lot of . . . . ,” he started, but I interrupted.
“The man that was shot last year was killed by one of my people. That puts some responsibility on me. But I didn’t anticipate it. I didn’t order it. I wasn’t even aware it had happened until the next day.”
“That doesn’t make you any less to blame,” Morris insisted.
“And what about you?” I suggested.
He looked confused. “What do you mean?”
“You hired him. You brought him there, with a gun, prepared to do violence.”
“I never expected there to be any shooting. He carried a gun as part of his job.”
“You expect me to believe you never considered the possibility confronting us could be adversarial?” I asked.
More silence. Whether he was thinking about how to respond or refusing to pursue my comments I didn’t know. I continued before he had a real chance.
I began again. “For years you were suspicious of us. You hired people to investigate us. You tried to get us thrown out of government competitions. You were convinced for some reason that we were up to something. Something that was against the law?” I asked, looking at him. “Something that was directed against the country? Something that was, what?”
I could tell I had struck a nerve. He looked a bit unsure of himself for a moment. But anger overrode his uncertainty.
I continued. “If we were responsible for any activities that you suspected, then you had to assume the use of violence would be a real possibility if we found ourselves threatened or our objectives subject to exposure. And so you brought armed men to confront our people. Your man pulled the gun,” I reminded him. “The man he threatened is an academic, not a man who is comfortable around guns.” Although I have sure been trying to change that. Didn’t I insist he come armed on this trip? “I think you have as much responsibility in the death of your employee as I do.”
“The other one, also one of your people, shot and killed him,” Morris insisted.
“In defense of one of our key people,” I retorted. “We were quietly going about our work, when surprised and threatened by armed interlopers. You were respons
ible for instigating the situation that resulted in the shooting.”
Morris remained quiet. I saw his eyes move to the coffee, but he wasn’t going to give me the satisfaction of seeing him accept anything from me. No matter how badly he wanted it. Finally moving on, he said quietly. “And what about Matt? I suppose that isn’t your fault either?”
I hadn’t known the name, but knew he was referring to the man who had been incarcerated here with him. “From what the priest tells me, you and he left the safety of this compound. Only you came back. I suspect the death of this Matt fellow was the result of something he tried to do while you were trying to get away. Again, his death is a shared responsibility. Perhaps a responsibility shared between you, me, and the man himself. You came back unharmed,” I reminded him.
“What about me,” he rallied. “You have illegally kept me prisoner for over a year. Denied me my rights. Denied me proper medical care. You care to deny that is your fault?”
I felt bad about this. Especially after learning from the priest the magnitude of the illness that was ravaging the man. “No,” I replied after a second. “No, that is my fault. I neglected to follow up after you were put here. I should have addressed the problem a long time ago. For that I apologize, although I know that doesn’t help a bit.”
