Blood on the Water

by Mark Hildebrandt

  Blood on the Water

  By

  Mark Hildebrandt

  Cover art Scott Layman

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  - Prolog -

  Chapter 1 - What did you say

  Chapter 2 - Trust me

  Chapter 3 - Hope

  Chapter 4 - Don't mess with me

  Chapter 5 - I'll do it my way

  Chapter 6 - The rest is history

  Chapter 7 - The line is drawn

  Chapter 8 - In-laws

  Chapter 9 - History 101

  Chapter 10 - Ah...Family

  Chapter 11 - Look but don't touch

  Chapter 12 - No, you can't have him

  Chapter 13 - Who's in charge here

  Chapter 14 - Damn pagans

  Chapter 15 - Cozumel...are you nuts

  Chapter 16 - Secure

  Chapter 17 - First contact

  Chapter 18 - That's right the long count

  Chapter 19 - An Imperial Baton

  Chapter 20 - Not at this point in the game

  Chapter 21 - After you or me

  Chapter 22 - Not yet

  Chapter 23 - You're all wet

  Chapter 24 - No senate approval

  Chapter 25 - Figure it out yourself

  Chapter 26 - Everybody gets it

  Chapter 27 - Marvelous toys

  Chapter 28 - She's on to me

  Chapter 29 - It's gone

  Chapter 30 - That changes everything

  Chapter 31 Time to go back

  Chapter 32 - A lab rat

  Chapter 33 - Check

  Chapter 34 - No check

  Chapter 35 - You both lose

  - Epilogue -

  - Prolog -

  Emperor Trajan’s Palace, Rome, 854 ab urbe condita (100 AD)

  The physician Marcus Vespus stood at the entrance to the Emperor’s private chambers where he observed the tall, handsome, charismatic leader; slumped in his chair sobbing. The chamber was as dark as the Emperor’s mood. He had been cloistered in this dim environment for over two days. Marcus waited for Trajan to lift his head and acknowledge his presence. He knew that even though Trajan was a wise and just Emperor, it was never a good idea to disturb a distraught person, especially one with absolute power.

  “What bad news have you brought me physician? Have you now come to tell me that like the unborn child, my beloved Pompeia has also perished? Before you open your mouth to speak, I warn you, I am not in good spirits.”

  Marcus slowly entered the room, never taking his eyes off the distraught Emperor. “No, Excellency. Pompeia will be fine. She only needs rest to recover her strength.”

  “Well then what do you want? I don’t need kind words. We have been through this before.” The Emperor paused lowered his head and covered his eyes with his hands, “It’s just that there is nothing worse than the loss of an heir, born or unborn, and this one was the hardest. Pompeia knew the baby was dead. She told me several days ago. Carrying that dead baby was a terrible burden for her to endure, a terrible burden for her, for me, and for the Roman Empire. I fear she is getting old, and her time to make babies is almost at an end. She may not be able to get pregnant again, and I have yet to father an heir. If she does not bear me a son, I may need to comply with her wishes, and adopt my nephew Hadrian.” He sat up once again and rubbed the back of his hand across his eyes, “Do not misunderstand, Hadrian is a fine soldier, a just and moral man, but I want my own blood to sit on this throne next.”

  Trajan leaned forward and glared at Marcus, “Physician, you are a man of science. You and your ilk claim to have knowledge over all things natural and unnatural. I ask you to muster all your power and help me. If you do, I will make you rich beyond all imagination.”

  Marcus bowed his head, “Excellency … “

  “Silence physician! Do not interrupt me. Especially when I am in the process of crafting a bargain.” Once again Marcus bowed his head, but this time did not say anything. “If you use your magic, enable Pompeia to conceive and deliver me an heir of my own seed, I will make you and your family wealthy for generations to come. I will apportion you and your heirs, a percentage of the annual Imperial income. As long as the Empire lives so too will your family.” Trajan stared intently at the Physician, “What say you? What is your answer?”

  “Excellency, if I could make it so with an herb, a potion, or perhaps a surgical procedure I would, but I don’t think that will work.”

  Trajan’s intense gaze was beginning to show the red flush of anger, “If you cannot heal my wife, what in hades are you doing here?”

  “I did not mean to imply I was without a theory or recommendation. For I do have both.”

  Trajan immediately sat up straight in his chair. The physician’s words had dimmed the look of anger. “Tell me your suggestion. I will do anything to bring an heir of my own seed into this world. You name what needs to be done, and it will be so.”

  Marcus cautiously took, a few steps closer to the throne. “Anything may not be as easy as you think.”

  “Marcus do not taunt me. I am the Emperor. The senate has declared me optimus, the best. All I need do is say it, and it will be so. Now tell me, what must be done? It will become imperial law before the cock crows.”

  Marcus smiled to himself. This was what he had been waiting for, an opportunity to present his case, and he truly believed, save the Empire. “Excellency there is a culprit responsible for Pompeia’s condition, but she is not alone, all Rome suffers the effects.

  “Pompeia is not the only Roman noble having difficulty carrying a child to term. There are many stillbirths, and of the babies born, most are small and sickly. But that is only part of the problem, most noble Roman women cannot even get pregnant. It seems our entire Roman aristocracy is having problems producing heirs.”

  Trajan slumped back down in his chair, and demanded the slave bring more wine. “Physician do you have something relevant to say. Everyone knows about those problems, but I don’t give a damn about other Romans. My only concern is my heir and Pompeia.”

  “Excellency, please, just bear with me for a moment. I think you will find what I have to say is germane.

  “Several years ago, a Spanish mine owner commissioned me to conduct a study. He had noticed workers in his lead mines, and lead smelters, were getting sick and dying. Of course, that is not, in and of itself, surprising. Science has known for years; lead vapors were unhealthy. The owner asked me to identify how much exposure the workers could take, before they would become too sickly to be of use. He wanted to try maximizing his slave investment, so to speak. He wanted to know when he should rest them, and for how long before they could be sent back to work. He hoped, by rotating them, he might be able to extend the amount of work he could get out of his slaves. He hired me to find out. I agreed to take the project and was given one hundred healthy agricultural slaves to test.

  “My first problem was trying to administer a consistent amount of lead to the slaves. I tried feeding them lead pellets, but no matter how many pellets I gave them, it didn’t seem to have any effect. I next grounded lead into a fine powder and heated it on a steel plate. Under these conditions the lead turned to a white powder. I found the white power completely dissolved in vinegar. The experiment was repeated several times and each one yielded the same result. The procedure proved to be the method I sought to administer an exact and consistent amount of lead to my test slaves.

  “My first attempts were problematic. The slaves given the potion quickly died, so I kept reducing the dosage until the symptoms became manageable, and quick death was avoided. It did not take much of my vinegar potion to produce the symptoms of gout, colic, and loss of appetite. The treated slaves became pale, and oft
en seemed to be somewhat addled. If babies were born, they were small and sickly, but most women had miscarriages or never got pregnant. If the doses were increased, just a little more, the slaves died.

  “Excellency these people all exhibited the same symptoms as the Roman aristocracy. I have since become convinced, the people of Rome are being poisoned in just the same manor I poisoned those slaves.”

  “Come now Physician, how can that be? There are no lead mines near Rome, and all the smelters have been closed and moved to be near the mines. Marcus you are once again beginning to try my patience.”

  “Excellency, please indulge me for just a moment longer. I too was confused. There was no question in my mind that the Roman nobility was suffering the same illness, as my slaves, but where did the lead come from?

  “Perhaps the city’s water system, I reasoned. After all, Julius Caesars’ Engineer, Vitruvius, used lead, Plumbum, pipes in the underground portions of the water system. So, I checked some of the pipes, and found the insides were coated with a white crust. The crust would not dissolve in vinegar, or water, and clearly separated the water from the lead pipe. No, it was clear the lead was not coming from the pipes.

  “Marcus are you getting to a point?”

  “Yes Excellency. I did find the source of the lead poising our people. I know you are very popular with the people, but I wonder, have you ever been into a kitchen?”

  “What would I do in a kitchen, I am first and foremost a soldier. It is only because of a disparate man’s adoption that I now sit as Emperor. I did not go into a kitchen as a General, and I will not as an Emperor. But what does that have to do with this lead poison of which you speak?”

  “Because Excellency, I believe the source of our poison can be found in the kitchen. The source is defrutum sapa.”

  “That is about enough of this nonsense. Defrutum sapa has been used for hundreds of years. I think it is time to summons my guards, and have you tossed from the palace.”

  “Wait Excellency, hear me out.” Marcus said, keeping his tone low and calming. “I’m almost done.”

  “Very well, I will give you a few more minutes. Only because, if you leave, I will have to grieve alone, and your nonsense seems to have taken my mind from Pompeia.”

  “Excellency defrutum sapa is made almost the same way as lead potion I gave the Spanish slaves. All cooks are instructed to make it in a lead vessel, copper or brass will not do. The lead vessel is heated, much as I did to make the lead power, then grape juice is added along with a few other ingredients. The mixture is then boiled down to a third of the original volume, the sapa. Excellency, I used vinegar not grape juice, but other than that, the sapa recipe is essentially the same procedure. I killed several slaves with my mixture. My experiments clearly document how defrutum sapa is slowly killing Rome.”

  “Are you trying to tell me a simple sauce is killing Rome?”

  “Defrutum sapa is more than a simple sauce Excellency. It is in everything we eat and drink. All wine is treated with it, and it is served with every meal either as a dipping sauce or as an ingredient in the main dishes. From my calculations Roman nobility eat enough lead, from the defrutum sapa, to be every bit as sick as the Spanish slaves that were given my potion. If we don’t stop eating and drinking lead, the Roman nobility will parish. There will be few children born, and the members of the Senate will be far too addled to adequately protect the Empire from future threats.”

  “Are you saying that if Pompeia doesn’t eat or drink anything with defrutum sapa she will be able to have a normal child?”

  “I believe so Excellency, but the same is true for you as well. You will need to quit drinking treated wine.”

  “Marcus how can what you ask be done? As you say the sauce is in everything.”

  “Excellency, you are the Emperor, and what’s more the people love you. Make it an imperial order to quit using any kind of lead utensils in the preparation of food or drink, and this sickness will end. Pompeia will be able to conceive.”

  Emperor Trajan sat straight in the chair, and in a somber voice said, “Very well physician. I will do as you ask, and if Pompeia gives me an heir, I will honor my bargain.”

  Marcus bowed, in part to hide the smile that had grown on his face. “Agreed. Excellency. And history will show, you have just saved the Empire.”

  Chapter 1

  - What Did You Say -

  After spending six hours in coach James was sore, tired and hungry. He couldn’t figure out who, or what, for that matter could possibly fit in those tiny seats. One thing was certain, it was not a healthy six foot two, two-hundred-pound male. To make matters worse, he was seated in the last row of the plane, and there were three hundred other lethargic passengers in front of him. As he tried to discreetly massage the cramp in his butt, his mind told him to be patient. This was, after all, vacation. One he had been planning for two years, and under no circumstances was he about to rush it.

  The wait to get off the plane was taking longer than the actual flight, he thought and grimmest. Finally, he spotted passengers several rows ahead moving toward the isle, and in the excitement growing from the hope he would soon be liberated from this cramped metal composite tube, he tried to stand. Only to crack his head on the overhead baggage compartment. Damn, he muttered to himself, plopped back down in the torture chair, and let his mind wander the recesses where he had carefully stored all his expectations for the trip. Best of all, he thought, no students, no term papers and no office hours. That brought a smile to his face. He lowered his head and stared at the floor, allowing his mind to slowly drift away from the cramped seat and aching body. The exercise was very effective. So much so he was startled when nudged by the anxious passenger next to him pointing to an empty isle. Slowly he got up, bending nearly in half to protect his head, and moved to the isle. He tugged several times at his carry-on bag before it could be extricated from the greedy compartment. At last he was standing erect, albeit somewhat stiff, and with bag in hand he started walking. Each step increased the amplitude of his smile. Not long now. Just a couple of hours on the train to Northumberland, and he would at last be standing next to one of the most famous Roman ruins in England, Hadrian’s Wall. Two glorious weeks walking the Wall, taking in the sights, the history and sharing several pints with locals along the way. He would then spend another two weeks moving south, visiting as many other Roman sites as possible, and ending the trip in London. It would be a wondrous vacation, and it was finally here. Now it was just a matter of following the crowd to customs, and a waiting hired car.

  While walking through the brightly lit corridor leading to Customs and Immigration, James noticed his anxiety was beginning to increase. Far more than what was reasonable for a simple customs inspection, especially since he had nothing to hide. He was beginning to feel nauseated. His pace slowed, then stopped, and he soon found himself leaning against the wall for support. His fellow passengers quickly hurried passed, each trying to beat the person next to them to the customs agent. They were so engrossed in their individual competitions none noticed James’s deteriorating condition.

  With right hand against the wall, and left holding his stomach, he watched all the other passengers vanish in what appeared to be an endless corridor. He hoped once the crowd had cleared, he would be able to catch his breath and the dizziness would subside, but the results he sought soon faded, just as his fellow passengers had. The cramps worsened. James decided his only option was to muster all his remaining strength and amble down the hall to customs. That would be far better than staying there in the deserted hall, waiting for security, or the next plane to land. With his right hand still on the wall, he attempted to push himself erect, but something was wrong. The wall would no longer support him. He figured the malady, which had gripped his stomach, was now affecting his mind because he could see a solid wall. Moving hands to his knees James pushed to a standing position. Once standing the cramps intensified, causing him to double over again. As a reflex action he t
hrew his right arm out to catch the wall, but there was nothing there. The wall was changing. It was metamorphosing and no longer appeared solid. It was beginning to look like a heat-generated mirage. Just as desert heat creates the false image of water far in the distance, the wall no longer looked substantial. James was again standing and staring at the wall. Fortunately, his stomach was better, but the dizziness seemed to be intensifying. The hall was spinning, and the spinning seemed to be synchronized with the wavy mirage like lines in the wall. The effect was extremely disorienting. James threw out his right arm to catch something solid and slow the spinning in his head. Just as he did he remembered the wall, and his arm disappeared in the image that a few minutes ago was solid concrete, but now seemed to be a merely a projection. Instead of toppling over, after trying to lean against nothing but air, his arm stopped. It seemed to be stuck in the mirage, something had grabbed it. This is damn peculiar he decided. His mind told him it was time to call for help; although, he was not sure how to explain his arm being stuck in the wall. James turned to face the customs area and started to yell when the wall began pulling him in. The next thing that registered in James’s consciousness was a cement wall moving at high speed directly towards his head. He closed his eyes in anticipation of the impact, and everything stopped, not only his motion, but also the distant noise of the airport. The general rumble that comes with a big building full of humans. The rumble that is always relegated to a small place in the back of the mind, somewhere just below consciousness, was suddenly gone. The silence was unnerving and forced him to once again open his eyes. As soon as he did, he thought maybe it would be best to close them again.

  He was no longer in a bright airport corridor; he was in a dimly lit room. The walls were shiny gray and unadorned with any signs or pictures. The dim lighting came from the ceiling, the entire ceiling. Every square inch of the ceiling radiated the same intensity of dim white light. The lack of contrast between the dim white ceiling and dull gray walls made determining the exact size and shape of the room difficult. James craned his head to look for the concrete wall he had just traveled through, but there was no concrete to be seen. The wall behind him was made of the same shiny gray material as the rest of the room. There was no evidence of a door, break in the smooth surface, or any remnants of the airport corridor. The appearance of the room was unsettling, but that was nothing compared to the two men standing on either side of him.