by Chuck Dixon
“And we could get lost down a blind trail or run into weather or bad guys or just plain dumb luck.”
“Who’s chapping your ass?”
“This fucking horse,” Lee said and levered forward to relieve the pain in his rear.
“You sound like Chaz. He hates horses.”
“Everyone hates horses after two days in the saddle. Especially these saddles.”
They rode on into a copse of cedar growing between the brows of two hills. They stayed off high ground, where they might be visible for miles against the sky. Where it was possible, they used wooded trails to reduce the dust raised by their passage. The shade provided some relief from the heat even though the mosquito population increased. They picked up the pace to a trot to leave the annoying clouds behind. The horses seemed grateful.
The team dismounted when they’d cleared the trees. They led the animals to follow a trail that curved away along the face of an escarpment. A small pyramid of stones was visible beneath a brokeback tree just beneath the ridgeline. By it was an arrow of pebbles pointing off to their right through a narrow cleft. It was hard going, and they’d need to move in single file. They were bathed in fresh sweat within minutes.
“I could buy us some time on the other end,” Bat spoke up.
“How?” Lee said.
“I catch up with Jimbo. He and I can just go full-out for the roadway without the packies to slow us. We can set up an OP and cover the road until you guys catch up.”
“What if the bad guys show before we do?”
“We can hold them. I’m a sniper too, remember? Take down an officer, and they’ll either scatter or at least stop to think about it.”
Lee looked at her, his eyes in shadow in the stark sunlight.
“That’s sweet,” she said. “You’re worried about me.”
“I was weighing the tactical advantages. I was also thinking that only a dumbass volunteers for anything.”
“Aren’t Rangers all volunteers?”
“I wasn’t casting stones.”
“Good. The guy we’re looking for doesn’t approve of that kind of thing, right?”
“Okay,” he said. “Go.”
Bat swung up into the saddle and urged her horse into a gallop. She rode to the pyramid beneath the twisted tree, jerked her reins right and drove into the shadows of the constricted trail.
Jimbo slid from his horse at the sound of hoof falls behind him. He reined the mount athwart the trail and slid the Winchester from the leather boot. He trained it toward the rising haze of dust making a whirling smear against the yellow sky back the way he came.
Through the scope, Lee’s girl leapt into view where she leaned back in the saddle of her gray mare and expertly picked her way down a rocky slope. She held the reins high and guided the mount along an angled path. Bat was a natural, moving as one with the horse. Jimbo raised the rifle and stood waiting for her.
“You got farther ahead than I thought,” she said as she reined to a stop and dismounted.
“I kept a steady pace.” He slid the rifle back in its scabbard.
She explained the change in tactics.
“It’s a good option,” Jimbo said. “I been reading up on these Romans. Tacitus. The real stuff. He wrote that the legions were brave but could be easily spooked. A whole army ran, scared shitless in the Teutonburg once. Turned out it was acorns falling on their helmets.”
“Let’s go throw some acorns then,” she said.
Her mount was blown and lathered with sweat. They would lead their horses at a trot for a few miles. It was a killing pace for them over the broken ground. For the horses, it would serve as a rest, a cool down pace free of the weight of a rider.
Jimbo led the way. He looked back a few times at the start to see Bat keeping pace, not falling behind. The girl was tough.
Lee had a keeper in her. Jimbo smiled. He hoped his friend realized this was not another girl to play with for a while and then leave without warning. This one would find Hammond and skin him alive if he strayed.
24
The Road
Exhausted, aching and thirsty, Jimbo and Bat reached the roadway as the last light was dying behind the hills at their back. The last ten miles had been spent following a game trail along a downward grade. Walking the mounts down the slope was a tiring chore as they watched for sure footing on a sliding shale surface beneath a thin layer of gray grit. The horses balked at the darkening skies until Jimbo covered their eyes with strips of cloth torn from their t-shirts.
“You look like a real Indian now,” Bat said. The Pima was bare-chested. She was down to a sports bra.
“The nose isn’t enough?” He smiled back.
“Let’s not compare noses,” she said with mock-huffiness.
The slope drew up level before a ledge beyond which the land fell away sharply. They could see the road surface down below following the floor of a natural gully that ran almost dead north/south for miles. Over the opposite side of the depression, they could make out the shape of the Golan Heights rising dramatic and black against the stars.
The road was of crushed stone rather than the square-cut blocks typical of Roman construction. It was clearly manmade, even in the uncertain light. There was a mile marker, an obelisk of white stone, visible along the verge. The road surface was of uniform width running dead center of the defile.
That was the optimal path for a military road in this era. The engineers of the legions cut the grades for their roads to run below the skyline either laterally along the face of slopes or using natural cover like forests or the depression below them. A Roman army on the march could remain concealed from its enemy until it was too late to form an adequate defense, their approach concealed by the topography.
“Are we early or late?” Bat said.
“No way to tell.” Jimbo glassed the road to the south through the scope of his rifle.
“And no one to ask,” she said. The road was empty of traffic as far as they could see in either direction even using the powerful 30x lenses. No one would be abroad at this hour in a country where bandits roamed and evil spirits were very real.
Jimbo unstowed his night-vision gear and peered through it, sweeping it along the road and surrounding heights. No telltale signs of a settlement or even a campfire. No smoke against the sky.
“We take care of the horses and make a cold camp right here,” he said. “I’ll take first watch. In the morning we follow this south a little ways, see if anyone will talk to us. Give the others a chance to catch up.”
The others caught up midmorning the following day. They found the two scouts’ horses tethered in a copse of trees midway up the stony slope. A collection of stubborn firs tucked into a cleft in the rocks. The three men decided the best option was to watch along the road for Jimbo and Bat’s return. They rested their mounts and pack animals in the shade while eyeing the rocky ledge above the roadway for any sign of their teammates.
Jimmy Smalls and Bathsheba returned by noon. “What’s your best guess?” Lee asked. He and Jimbo had taken a knee overlooking the road.
“We either missed them or they’re not here yet. My money’s on them being on the march to the south of us.” Jimbo swept the country to the south with an open hand. “This is the only viable military road. They have to be along in the next few days.”
“Any human intel?”
“We haven’t seen any locals yet. Someone’s sure to be along this afternoon.”
“What’s the water situation?”
“There’s a spring about a mile and half to the north.”
Jimbo claimed he could smell water like a horse could. All Lee knew was that the Pima seldom missed when it came to looking for potable water even in country like this. Especially in country like this.
“Is it near a chokepoint like this one?”
“There’s a twenty-degree turn in the canyon nearby. We set up either side and we can stop them cold,” Jimbo said.
“Let’s take a look,�
� Lee said, standing.
They found a caravan stopped at the spring when they arrived. Men and camels were watering there. The spring started high on the wall of the decline to trickle down a furrow in the rock worn smooth over the years. It gathered in a natural pool at the foot of the wall. The men were Arabs and dressed much the same way as the Rangers were familiar with back in The Now. The only notable absence was rifles. Each man wore a blade of some kind, and one man leaned on a spear with a rusted point.
The camels were loaded down with sacks bound to wooden racks. The men gave them water from leather buckets filled from the pool. The group visibly tensed at the sight of two men walking toward them around the turn in the canyon. They kept a wary eye but did not reach for weapons. To their eyes, one of the men was an African dressed in some kind of armor. The other was a Macedonian perhaps and dressed in peculiar leggings and a black cloth singlet of one piece. Both men were tall. They led fine horses behind them.
Chaz and Lee stopped fifty feet from the men. Desert etiquette was eternal. You didn’t just walk up to a bunch of nomads. You gave them time to make up their minds about you. Just in case they made up their minds the wrong way, the caravaneers were covered by Jimbo and Bat watching through scopes from concealment above. After a few moments, the Arabs did a pantomime of pretending to have just noticed the pair of Rangers. One of them nodded and took a step forward. Probably their headman.
They let the guy speak first. He was first to the watering hole and held the conch. He spoke to them in a stream of slurred Arabic. Chaz picked a few words from the salad. Some kind of elaborate greeting. Chaz’s Arabic was strong but the accent was hard to follow; a dialect lost to time.
“Best to you and your company and may fortune smile upon all here,” Chaz bullshitted the guy along.
The headman squinted and pursed his lips at the tall black man’s formal enunciation. He thought perhaps the African was a lord in his land or the slave of a lord. Perhaps owned by the silent Macedonian who he accompanied.
The blessings and well-wishes went on for a while and afforded Chaz a chance to accustom himself to the other guy’s dialect. The headman was slowing down his speech like he was talking to an idiot. Chaz saw some of the others politely covering their mouths to hide smiles and stifle laughter. The small talk and glad-handing were over finally, and they got down to business.
The Arab offered that they were packing salt for sale to merchants along the road.
Chaz lied and said that he and his companion were agents for a Roman merchant in Philippi. They were looking to make contact with a column of Romans from the Twenty-third with a company of slaves that were expected along this road. This caravan was coming from the south and may have seen the soldiers.
The headman rubbed his beard and narrowed his eyes before coming to a decision.
“There are Romans to the south. We saw them two days ago. They were not on the march,” he said.
“What do you mean?” Chaz said.
“They do not march. They make a fort along the road.”
“They make camp, you mean?”
“No! A fort. They pile stone. They dig a trench like Romans do. We sold them salt.”
Chaz looked at Lee.
“Ask him about their aquilifer,” Lee said.
Chaz did, and the Arab described a horse affixed atop their banners.
“It’s the Twenty-third Legion. But why are they stopped?” Chaz asked in English.
“Fucking ask him,” Lee growled. They’d spent all their good luck at the start just as he’d predicted.
Chaz asked, and the Arab shrugged.
“This Roman fort, where is this?” Chaz asked.
“Two days south by camel. More days on foot or by horse.” The headman nodded down the road the way he’d come.
“What is there? A town? A well?”
“A town of Jews. A quarry. A big quarry where they cut stone for the Herods.”
“What of their company of slaves?” Chaz said.
“They cut rock,” the Arab said and spat.
Chaz turned to Lee.
“A quarry. Fuck me,” Lee said.
“History ain’t what it used to be,” Boats said.
Jimbo remained along the ledge watching the road. The others camped in the shade of wild fig trees to weigh options and share rations.
“Maybe they halted their march for a reason. Illness. Something like that,” Bat offered.
“Or they got a heads-up,” Lee said.
“How could that happen? How could they know we were here?” Chaz said.
“How the fuck should I know? This Harnesh figured it out and sent someone to warn them. Maybe they knew we’d be here even before we knew we’d be here. This shit messes with your mind,” Lee said.
“We need eyes-on,” Chaz said.
“We need a platoon, a company,” Lee said. “This goes from a simple three-point ambush to bad guys in a fortified position expecting trouble. And if they are encamped at a quarry that means the number of slaves is ramped up. Our guy is in a bigger mix now.”
“Our guy.” Boats chuckled through a mouthful of HooAH! bar.
“Yeah, well I wish he’d magic his own ass out of there and save us the trouble,” Lee spat.
“That’s not how it works,” Chaz said.
“Spare me the Sunday school,” Lee said with hand extended. “It is what it is. We ride up there and scope it out and hope that Tacitus wasn’t full of shit.”
“Tacitus?” Boats said.
“Roman historian Jimmy read. Says that the legions could turn pussy under the right circumstances,” Bat said.
“I like that.” Boats grinned. Sticky bits of protein bar dotted his teeth.
A series of high whistles brought them alert. Jimbo was waving them over from the lip of the canyon wall. Lee trotted down to him. Jimbo handed Lee his Winchester.
“Scope north. Below the dust cloud.”
Lee could see small figures coming along the road toward them. A column of men four across with more behind lost in the heat haze and the rising cloud of dust.
“Those are soldiers,” Lee said.
“Lots of ’em,” Jimbo said. “And coming the wrong way.”
25
A Change of Address
“How is your French?” Samuel asked.
Caroline had a French boyfriend for a while at college in London. They made frequent trips to Paris while they were going together and, after they broke up, she spent a summer touring Provence with some girlfriends. But Samuel didn’t want to know any of that.
“It’s fine. Better than tourist.”
“Good,” he said and pulled the Mercedes to a curb. It was night, and they were in an older part of the fifteenth arrondissement. The traffic was light on the two-lane street, and the buildings loomed close on either side along narrow sidewalks. There was Sufi music dully booming from somewhere behind the dark faces of the apartment blocks. Samuel climbed from behind the wheel to come around and open the door for Caroline. He took the baby from her and closed the door behind her before handing the sleeping Stephen back.
“The bag,” she said.
“You cannot bring it where we’re going.”
“You’ll get towed here,” she said.
“I left the keys in it. It will be stolen before the traffic wardens ever notice it.” He took her under the arm and escorted her over the broken slabs of the sidewalk.
“Stolen again, you mean.” She meant it as a joke.
“It does not matter. We will not be coming back here.” He guided them under an archway into a cramped lane between two buildings. The pounding music was reduced to a distant pulse behind them. Samuel put a hand to her back, and they stopped in the dark passageway that smelled of sour wine, stale flowers, and piss.
“This isn’t the best neighborhood, Samuel,” she said and held the baby closer under her coat as a sudden chill fell over her.
“It will improve in a moment,” he answered and raise
d his chin to point down the alleyway.
Caroline looked up to see a white mist building in the passage, growing more opaque by the second and climbing the walls to leave a white rime of ice on the ancient bricks.
“I don’t know about this. You didn’t say...” she began.
“Don’t worry about Stephen. He’s more suited to this sort of travel then you are,” he said in an even tone.
“I’ve followed you without questions. Well, without many questions. But this—”
“It is the best place to hide. It is where you and your child will be safe. You live through time now, Caroline. There is no turning back.” His hand pressed into her back gently.
She drew the coat tighter about Stephen to hoard their body heat together and stepped into the clinging fog. Her breath was visible now. She glanced upward and through the pale swirling haze caught a glimpse of rings above her—gleaming black rings dripping with frost. They were traveling through some version of the field generator created by her and her brother; a copy of their invention constructed by unknown hands in a time and place strange and foreign to her.
“How—” she began.
“No questions,” Samuel said and took her hand to draw her through the field.
She emerged from the mist weak and disoriented and deeper in the alley. Samuel took the baby from her and cradled it in one arm while guiding her from the chilling cloud into a courtyard lit by a single gas lamp. Caroline gulped air and fought down the urge to vomit. She was still gasping as her head cleared. She gestured for her child. Stephen was placed in her arms, and she saw that he breathed easily. His eyelids fluttered a bit, but he was still restfully asleep.
“See, he is virtually unfazed by manifestation just as I promised,” Samuel said, and Caroline thought she saw a fleeting smile of reassurance.
“When is this?” she said, looking about. The courtyard was broad and lined about by dark buildings. But now she saw that empty flower beds lined the borders and a pair of bare fruit trees stood in an island at the center. The smell of wood smoke filled the cold air. Above the rooftops, smoke rose from flues into the starry sky. The persistent drum of recorded music was gone to be replaced by a dull rhythmic sound from an unseen source. It was the tramp of boots—many boots. She realized at once that the white noise of street traffic was absent. Looking up, she saw that what she could see of the sky was not lined with the contrails of passenger jets.
