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300 The Empire
|
Theo Papas
|
[
"historical fiction",
"Greece"
] |
[] |
Chapter 73
|
No trumpets sounded. No horn was blown. There were low-voiced orders from the officers and quiet nudges from the petty officers. The oars had been dipped in fresh fat to slide easily in the oarlocks. The sails were tied tight to the masts to avoid rustling. No lamps were lighted on the ships.
It was not yet midnight when the rowers from the Persian army got tiredly up from the dry ground after a few hours of sleep, their hands still red from the rowing of the day before, their shoulders aching and their legs numb. After they received their half-dry oars and smeared them with fat, they drew up in two lines, one behind the other, stumbling in the darkness.
The petty officers under the hanging rope ladders waited to give the signal to board. Messengers brought it in low voices from one ship to the next all up and down the four miles of coast where the Persian fleet was drawn up. To the east were first the first divisions of Phoenicians, then the divisions of Ionia, then of Lycia, of Egypt, and of Cyprus. Dozens of different languages, dozens of different uniforms, dozens of different kinds of prayers. There were all different builds and makes of ships: the Phoenician ships with their high and wide decks to accommodate more marines, archers and spearmen, the Ionian ships, smaller, lighter and more maneuverable, with their great power of speed for ramming, and finally the Egyptian ships with their elongated prows and their heavy equipment, constructed for drawing alongside other ships and boarding them.
The stones the petty officers held in their hands began to beat out their muffled rhythm when everything was ready. The hundred and fifty thousand oarsmen waiting in lines under the rope ladders began to go forward silently. Two by two, they climbed up the ladders, came on deck and took their assigned positions. Behind them came the petty officers to inspect their position on the rowing benches. Then came the signalmen and the helmsmen, taking their places at the bows and sterns, respectively. Then the warriors boarded. Then archers and spearmen with their weapons, enormous bows of horn and ivory with dozens of yards range, javelins of osier and dogwood with sharp bronze points, swords, daggers and axes for hand to hand combat.
Last of all the captains boarded. They inspected the state of their ships, spoke to their officers, gave their orders in low voices, made arrangements with the petty officers and steersmen, and sat on their raised pedestals at the stern of the ships.
One hour after midnight everything was ready.
The slaves on shore pushed hard and the ships slid into the water.
The Persian armada sailed for the most important battle in its history.
|
300 The Empire
|
Theo Papas
|
[
"historical fiction",
"Greece"
] |
[] |
The Noose Tightens
|
Themistocles looked at the eastern horizon, where the sun had just risen. Then he turned his gaze to the empty sea stretching out for half a mile before him, in front of the first ships in the Persian armada. He looked at it carefully, searching for the signs the fishermen had told him about. When he saw dark bands begin to come up and the surface began to look like the back of a fish with silver scales, he immediately sent his messenger to the other divisions of the fleet. The wind rustled in the masts of the ships. The hour they were waiting for had come.
Without losing time, he went to the Artemis' rope ladder, climbed up to the deck and stood at the stern, with his face to the shore. He raised his hands to the heavens and waited for a moment, silently, while his sailors and rowers gathered in front of him. Then, suddenly, he broke his silence and addressed the men in a passionate voice, as Greek always do before sending them into battle.
"Free citizens of Athens! Rowers of our fleet! My brothers!" he shouted in his stentorian voice, famous from his rhetorical speeches in the assembly of Athens. "Our hour has come! Either we will live free or we will die. Today we will fight with self-sacrifice and courage, we will crush the invaders and throw them back to Asia, to their arid steppes and tyrannical emperors!
"Citizens of Athens! Rowers of the fleet! You are the ones the aristocrats look down on. You are the ones they call the most and the worst. Today you can prove that you are not only the most, but the best. Today you have the chance to prove that the democracy gives birth not only to thinking citizens, but also to heroic soldiers. Today is your day, and you will never get another chance like this, to fight and defeat the proudest and most haughty of all tyrants. Today is the day you can humiliate him before his slaves and win glory like our ancestors, the heroes who conquered Troy! Do you want to do that today, citizens of Athens? Are you ready for glory?"
A buzz and clamor sounded from end to end of the gathering. Their chests, exhausted from pulling the oars, swelled as if filled with the winds of winter. Reddened hands were clenched into fists and raised. Mouths flayed by sun and salt were opened wide. Cheers, shouts and cries of derision filled the air.
"My brothers!" shouted Themistocles, and he raised his open palms to the delirious crowd. "Look at my hands. Look at them well. Look at the calluses on my palms. They are hands like yours, although you all know my wealth could have given me hands as soft as the hands of Apollo. Since I was a boy I have pulled the oars in my father's ships and I still pull the oars along with you in the exercises of the fleet. I am one of you, my brothers. I am you. Not from need, but by choice. Because I believe in the power of democracy and the power of democracy is you, its simple people, its citizens and fighters.
"Fight bravely with me today, citizens! Fight with manly courage, but also with your mind and with passion! Fight to humiliate the proud barbarians!
"Forward, citizens of Athens!"
"Forward, children of Greece!"
"For democracy and freedom!"
|
300 The Empire
|
Theo Papas
|
[
"historical fiction",
"Greece"
] |
[] |
Chapter 76
|
Artemisia was taking her place on the east side of the Persian formation when she heard the voice of the lookout from the bow.
"Nothing yet, my lady. All their ships are still on shore."
She turned and looked over the mass of Persian ships. Behind her not an inch of sea was visible. The ships were crowded closely, in some places rail to rail and in others stern to stern. In some the oars had been raised to make more room, and in others the rowers had pulled them in so they would not break.
And yet Achaimenes had still not sent ships into the straits. The Persian vessels kept coming in, one after another, like thirsty camels coming to a well. Even more ships had drawn up on the nearby eastern exit of the straits, forming a dense line of rams to cut off any chance of escape from the trap.
"The trap for whom?" she murmured skeptically to herself.
She sighed and pressed her lips together. If the Greeks attacked first, as had happened three weeks earlier at Afetes, they would fall on their closed lines and be torn apart like soft flesh falling on iron spears. But if the Persians had to attack first, it would be hard to maneuver in such a dense formation. Then the danger would not come from the Greek ships, but from their own.
She had warned the emperor. But Xerxes decided like a proud king, unable to withstand his own vanity, and not like a wise general. He had drawn his entire enormous fleet up and now he was admiring it, seated on his throne, on the side of the mountain behind them. He had chosen the risk of resplendent triumph over the safety of patient victory.
If Themistocles kept their agreement and the ships of Athens left at the right moment, the Greek fleet would look like a little rabbit before a huge bear and the triumph of Xerxes would be certain. And it would have been made on her advice. Then the emperor's gifts would exceed all her fantasies and her rise in the hierarchy of the Persian court would be swift. The Great King was famous for the harshness of his punishments, but just as famous for the generosity of his rewards.
But if Sikinos was lying and Themistocles, a man for whom intrigue was second nature, did not keep to their agreement, then victory was not so certain. There was a danger of becoming involved in a conflict at sea in which their numerical superiority would become a great disadvantage. The only comfort she had was that the Greeks were fighting amongst themselves. Of that she was certain because, all the way through the whippings and the torture, the Persian slave swore to Ahura Mazda that he had seen them arguing, swearing and fighting with his own eyes.
"How well can an army fight if it is panicking? How can officers work together if they are torn by strife and coming to blows with each other?" she wondered, optimism coming back to life inside her and dispelling her fears. "That stupid democracy of theirs… It will destroy them…" she murmured finally, and it was as if she could see Themistocles himself again, as he was that night in her bedroom at Halicarnassus.
"They're leaving! They're leaving, my lady!" sounded the voice of the lookout at the prow.
She abandoned her thoughts, jumped up and climbed onto the pedestal at the stern.
"Some of their ships are leaving from the western side, my lady" the lookout explained.
Yes. From the west. She could see them herself, even though her ship was on the eastern side. In the clear morning air, she could easily make out a division of about forty Greek ships that had set sail and were withdrawing, taking advantage of the wind that had just started to blow.
A broad smile was carved on her face. She had been right. Sikinos had told the truth. The ships were withdrawing. The Greeks were breaking formation, abandoning their alliance, escaping.
She climbed down from the pedestal at the stern and walked quickly down the corridor to the stern.
"What city are they from?" she asked her lookout anxiously.
Her heart was in agony. At the other exit there were a hundred Persian ships from Pamphylia, waiting like a spider in its web until their victim was ready.
"I cannot make it out, my lady. Their sails are white, like the sails of Athenian ships."
She sighed heavily and returned to her place.
It was no longer important whether the ships leaving were Athenian or whether the Artemis, the ship of Themistocles, was among them.
In a little while the battle would start and the gods would decide victory and defeat, life and death.
|
300 The Empire
|
Theo Papas
|
[
"historical fiction",
"Greece"
] |
[] |
Chapter 77
|
Xerxes sat on his shining throne on the mountainside and looked at the sea straits with shining eyes. He saw the retreating Greek ships as well, and his mind was already carried away by the brilliant victory and the glory awaiting him.
Next to him, General Mardonius amplified his enthusiasm, trying to increase his share of the coming triumph. Good words never do any harm, and neither does flattery, especially to ears that are used to hearing them.
"The lookouts I placed on the cliffs confirm everything the slave has said. The signalmen on our ships report the same. There is panic in the Greek camp," he had said earlier, in a voice trembling with enthusiasm.
"And now their ships are leaving. I hope they don't all leave and I have someone to crush" the emperor said cheerfully.
"Even if they want to, they can't all leave. Our trap has closed. All the sea routes will throw them on our rams" Mardonius answered conceitedly.
"Wonderful…"
"They themselves know it, my king. They are trapped. Our messengers and lookouts inform me that their women are already wailing on the sides of the hills and in the temples of the island" he explained, before adding with even greater arrogance "and their men are in despair. They are running up and down on the coast without a plan and without discipline, in total panic."
"That is natural, Mardonius. Even their god, Poseidon, would be frightened if they saw our fleet and our hundred and fifty thousand rowers and marines" said Xerxes, even more arrogantly. "Really… What about their rowers?"
"Their rowers are paralyzed by fear. They do not even dare to board their ships yet."
"Anyone would hesitate."
"Do you think this is our time to attack and strike their ships on dry ground? The Greeks won't have time to board."
Xerxes leaned back in his throne and looked silently at Salamis opposite."
"No… We cannot, their shores do not have room for that many ships" he said finally. "Besides, it would be too easy of a victory. Not worthy of me at all. No… It is better to wait for them to go out on the sea so we can crush them."
|
300 The Empire
|
Theo Papas
|
[
"historical fiction",
"Greece"
] |
[] |
Chapter 78
|
On his ship, the tallest and heaviest of the Persian fleet, Mervalos looked in puzzlement at the forty Greek ships sailing to the west.
"They are leaving, master" said the helmsman standing behind him. It was difficult for him to hide his joy. "They are running like rabbits!"
The Phoenician admiral did not share his helmsman's enthusiasm. "Exactly as you say… Rabbits run…" he murmured, looking thoughtfully at the Greek ships, with their sails spread and their oars pulled in. "But these ships are sailing slowly, they look like they are going on a journey. Who runs in panic like that?"
"Maybe they are doing it to provoke us. But we could overtake them easily and strike them from the back."
"Maybe that's exactly what they want…" murmured Mervalos, looking at the Greek ships drawn up on the shore. "To weaken our east side by taking off some of our ships."
"We can strike quickly and return in time."
"No."
"We are in no danger from them, that's obvious" insisted the helmsman and pointed at the Greek anchorage. "Look, master… Look at their women… Look at their rowers running back and forth… They are frightened and disorganized…"
"The truth is that they look that way…"
"Well then?"
"But are they?" wondered the Phoenician, thoughtfully rubbing his beard, which was fluttering in the breeze that had suddenly started up. "Are they?"
|
300 The Empire
|
Theo Papas
|
[
"historical fiction",
"Greece"
] |
[] |
Chapter 79
|
Adeimantos and his division have withdrawn" said the messenger sent by the lookout on the hilltop.
"Is the Persian formation complete?"
"Some of their ships are still in the middle. All the rest are in position."
"Good…" Themistocles looked at the white clouds on the surface of the sea, where the water was not protected by the long cape of Kynosoura that stuck out like a thumb into the sea on the east side of the straits. Then he turned his eyes to the waiting rowers. "Then we're ready" he said calmly.
"Ready" confirmed Cimonas, standing under the stern of the Artemis and waiting for his orders.
Slowly but decisively, Themistocles nodded his head. Then he climbed onto the pedestal at the stern and raised his right fist.
"May the goddess Athena be with us…" he said, and put on his helmet.
The trumpets sounded and the fifty thousand rowers and marines of the Greek fleet climbed into the ships and took their places at the oars and on the decks, behind the oiled leather of the oarlocks and the protective shields on the rails.
Old men, women, even little children pushed at the wooden scaffolding. The keels, smeared with sheep fat and supported on boards, slid into the sea.
Thousands of oars were plunged into the water and hundreds of prows sailed against the enemy.
The trap was closed.
Now it was time for battle and bravery.
|
300 The Empire
|
Theo Papas
|
[
"historical fiction",
"Greece"
] |
[] |
Chapter 80
|
What is happening, Mardonius?"
"They have boarded their ships and started, my king."
"Finally…"
The emperor leaned forward, full of excitement.
The hour he had been waiting for so many years, had arrived.
"Finally…" he repeated and ordered the imperial scribes to open their papyri and record his triumph in detail.
|
300 The Empire
|
Theo Papas
|
[
"historical fiction",
"Greece"
] |
[] |
Chapter 81
|
From the west end to the center were the ships of Athens, exactly opposite the Phoenician formation. If that broke, the rest of the Persian fleet would break up.
On the east side were the sixteen ships of the Spartans and next to them the ships from the island of Aegina. In the center of the Greek formation were the ships from the other cities and the islands.
The Artemis sailed ahead with all the speed her rowers could give her. To the east was the cape and to the south was the land mass of Salamis. Between them the water was calm, protected from the southeastern wind that came howling into the straits and stirred up the waters off the coast of Athens.
"Straight ahead, attack speed" shouted Themistocles. The petty officer gave the command to the rowers and the signalman transmitted it to all the ships of the division.
To the right of Themistocles sailed the Aisia, Cimonas' ship. To his left was the Ischys, the ship of Ameinias who was shouting passionately at his crew, as if they were on seats of the stadium at Olympia watching the athletes in the Olympic Games.
"Even more power to the oars" shouted Themistocles, seeing the white clouds on the surface, a sign that they were coming out of the protected waters.
The high rails of the Phoenician ships were a hundred yards away. The forty marines and twenty archers on their great decks could be seen clearly. On their own decks there were only ten marines and four archers, which made the ships lighter, because Themistocles believed that a sea battle is won or lost by maneuvers and by ramming, not by swords and arrows.
The Artemis bucked wildly when it hit the wild waters. A wave hit her on the side of the bow. The bow reared up and then fell, slapping the water. The ship shuddered from bow to stern like a house in an earthquake. Many of the marines were shaken and grabbed on wherever they could, and the helmsman threw himself on top of his great oars to hold the ship steady.
"Avast!" shouted Themistocles suddenly, and the rowers slowly reversed the direction of their rowing, slowing and then stopping the ship.
The trumpets sounded slowly, giving the message. The ships of the Greek fleet, one after the other, slowed down and stopped near the center of the straits, tossed by the waves. The maneuver looked like a dog throwing itself onto its prey, only to find that the prey was not a rabbit but an enormous bear.
"Now what do we do?" asked the petty officer.
"We stay still."
|
300 The Empire
|
Theo Papas
|
[
"historical fiction",
"Greece"
] |
[] |
Chapter 82
|
"They are afraid. That's logical" said Xerxes, and laughed out loud. "Fear holds empires together. It destroys armies and fleets."
"That is true, my lord" Mardonius agreed cheerfully. But his eyes remained fixed uneasily on the western side of the Greek armada, where the ships of Athens were drawn up with their rams ready to go. That could only mean one of two things: that their hostage was mistaken or that Artemisia had lied.
"Give the command to attack, Mardonius. When a wild beast hesitates in fear, that is the best moment to strike," Xerxes commanded.
|
19 Souls
|
J. D. Allen
|
[
"mystery"
] |
[
""
] |
Chapter 53
|
The road twisted up to Breckenridge. Back and forth, winding like a snake with a bellyache. It was summer, so there was no snow to fight, just vacationers in their oversized campers taking up both lanes. Jim supposed it should be a pretty drive, but the circumstances distorted the beauty of the scenery.
When she got a clear bit of asphalt, Ava pushed the Town Car along far above the posted limit. She bit her bottom lip and tapped the steering wheel with her index finger. Anxious. Worried. Pressured from her boss to get this psycho before she made more headlines.
No one had been told of the connections to past killings. The media was focused on the brutality of the Cynthia Hodge murder and was unaware of the depth and breadth of Sophie's killings. It wouldn't be long until someone leaked something. Secrets were not long kept in Vegas, no matter the city's slogan. It should be Whatever will make news in Vegas will make the news.
They came to the fork in the road. Ava eased left. Before long the pavement gave way to a white-graveled path that would take them to Sophie's hideout.
The driveway was long and tree-lined. Postcard material. The forest was too thick to make out any structure from there. Too dangerous to drive up to the house, and their backup was still on the way.
She pulled the car off just past the drive. Foot power from here on out. Ava opened the trunk, loaded, and cocked a shotgun. She offered it to Jim without words.
He considered it, then shook his head. "Not for me." He looked toward the house. "Shouldn't we wait for the SWAT team?"
"We're just going to take a peek. Assess the situation." He liked her style.
Twigs, pine cones, and other material crushed beneath his feet no matter where he placed his big boot. A particularly loud snap made Ava stop and glare at him. He cringed. How Native Americans used to be so quiet was beyond him. Maybe that was historic urban legend.
Sneaking up like this had his heart flopping around in his chest like a super ball. This much tension was bad. Made him nervous. Jumpy. It was dangerous. He attributed it to the fact that he wanted Sophie too bad and was worried over Sandy.
Personal investment was doubled down in this case. Bad mojo made for bad outcomes. Declining the gun had been a good idea. He was ready to jump out of his skin. And just like O said, a squirrel could run by and startle him enough to shoot Ava in her cute little ass.
She glanced back as if she heard his thoughts but pressed on. The sapling trees and vines tripped them up, slowing progress. A bead of sweat had rolled down his back and more would follow. He had his slap-jack in his right hand. Ava had her handgun at the ready and the shotgun hung over her shoulder.
She eased through the woods with a grace Jim would never possess, as if the branches and twigs were intentionally not in her way. That wasn't possible. The bottom line was his mass and momentum carried a volume hers did not.
She stopped and braced with her back against a tree. She pointed ahead. There was a narrow cabin at the end of the gravel. Two-story, given the height of the windows. Nice. Something a family from L.A. would rent for a week of skiing in December. He could picture a large Christmas tree covered in fat multicolored lights reflecting onto new snow through the wall of windows. Of course it was the middle of the day in August and nothing twinkled. Regardless, not the kind of place a murderer brought her victims to be tortured and killed. His gut told him something was off.
"No cars." It was a very low whisper.
"Maybe around back?"
Ava nodded. She pointed to the right and to him. "On three," she said without sound.
"What about the backup?"
"They'll be here."
Not what he meant. She held up one narrow finger. No polish. No rings.
|
19 Souls
|
J. D. Allen
|
[
"mystery"
] |
[
""
] |
Chapter 54
|
She would go to the left, he to the right. But the place looked deserted.
She didn't look back at him. Her brain was already on her mission. Jim's brain was deciphering what his gut was screaming at him. Would Sophie leave her hostages unattended after so much careful planning?
|
19 Souls
|
J. D. Allen
|
[
"mystery"
] |
[
""
] |
Chapter 55
|
Ava moved out. That left him no choice. He turned and headed in his assigned direction, skirting just inside the tree line.
The yard was narrower on his side, bringing him closer to the house. Glare from the sun blocked his view inside the tall front windows. A cheerful spring wreath with white birds on it adorned the front door.
Maybe this was the wrong place. Maybe she'd used a false address with her employer. That would make sense.
He crouched and ducked behind the front bushes to try for a glance inside. He stopped just short of the floor-to-ceiling windows. He peeked in quickly, saw nothing, and then waited a few seconds before a second look, this one longer.
Bright, open, and airy. There was cabin-themed decor everywhere. A bear rug and log furnishings with heavy plaid fabrics. The kitchen was at the back of the large two-story room. No one in sight.
He headed back the direction he'd come and continued to the back of the cabin. That side of the building was logs all the way up. One small window, shoulder height. Bathroom. It was covered by a curtain. Nothing to see. He made it around the back.
That was better than expected as well. Multi-level deck. Hot tub. Grill. Flowers decorated the area. It was only ten yards from a large pond. High-dollar for a hideout.
Ava stood at the back door, weapon lowered. "I didn't see anyone."
"Me either. Looks like we might be in the wrong place."
She shook her head. "I don't think so. May look pretty, but it feels creepy as hell."
He looked in the back door window around the drawn curtain.
She tried the door. The knob turned.
"Thought you wanted it all by the book?"
"That would be best. But …"
"Sandy's clock is counting down," he said, glad she was using his line of logic today.
She nodded. "Dan's not exactly safe either."
A low chirping noise repeated several times. Not a bird. Electronic. He looked down, following the line of the bottom rail of the deck. A small round device was screwed to the post closest to the door. That was some kind of trigger. Triggers meant things going boom.
"Motion detector."
"What?"
He grabbed Ava around the waist. No time to explain. He pulled her away from the door. Tangled legs made them both stumble down the two levels of deck steps. He recovered first and pulled her toward the pond. She caught her footing and started running with him. They were about five feet from the water when the world ended.
|
19 Souls
|
J. D. Allen
|
[
"mystery"
] |
[
""
] |
Chapter 56
|
No sound.
Jim was deafened. His legs were numb and he couldn't breathe. No way this was good.
He tried to breathe, drew in water. In a panic his lungs coughed out the fluid. Jim tried to move his arms. They answered.
In an instant his body returned to the normal responses to his mental commands. But his hearing was still off. He realized he was in the pond, one leg pinned under a large piece of timber. He sat up and his head was above the water.
Heat pressed against the back of his head. He twisted around. The cabin was ablaze. All of it. Immense logs of the framework had folded in on themselves like a Boy Scout campfire on steroids. The yard was littered with the shards, large and small, of the exploded timbers.
"Ava!"
He didn't see her. He dug in the mud, pulling at his leg. It didn't feel broken, only trapped. This was going to leave a mark. He held his breath to fold forward and dig at the mud holding him under the wood.
Ragged shards scraped his trapped leg. His foot twisted first, then his calf. He pushed up with all his weight and the timber rolled off. He stood in the water, testing his steadiness. His shin would carry a nasty bruise for a while, but he'd live.
"Ava!" Strange to listen to himself yell and not hear a thing.
He started out of the water and saw her sit up in a tall patch of reeds a couple of yards away. Her hair was a soaking-wet mess, her head was bleeding and her arm hung limp and twisted in an impossible direction. Her shoulder was dislocated or broken. Either way, she would be in a great deal of pain when the shock of the blast wore off.
Smoke billowed past, obscuring his path as he waded in her direction. The cabin burned like dry kindling.
"You okay?" He said it but was sure her hearing would be as dampened as his.
Her reaction was neither positive nor negative. But she did mouth something he could understand. Her hand went to her head wound first. She gently tested the cut and then inspected the blood it left on her fingers. Then she tried to move her left arm. He barely made out the screech of pain that accompanied the action.
"Keep it still."
He dug for his phone. Wet. No bars. No signal. They had passed several other cabins on the way in. Surely someone heard the explosion. Backup was on the way. He took off his shirt and wrapped it around her body, tucking it under her arm with the least amount of movement to her shoulder as possible. She cringed again.
"Sorry."
He tied it off, making a sling of sorts. Would hold it better than nothing.
|
19 Souls
|
J. D. Allen
|
[
"mystery"
] |
[
""
] |
Chapter 57
|
The cell phone on the dash started talking. A ring tone. The cartoon. Marvin the Martian. "Where's the Kaboom? There should have been an earth-shattering Kaboom."
No need to respond. It was an electronic message sent from the device planted under the cabin.
She closed her eyes, ignoring the road. The bastards had found her happy place. Her retreat. The thought was a soul-sucking wound in her stomach. There wasn't much she was attached to in this world. That cabin had been about it. Since they found her birth mother, Sophie had suspected Bean may be good enough to find her.
She was right. He would be punished.
She took in a yoga breath. Long, deep, it filled first her chest and then her belly with fresh air.
Good thing she had trusted her intuition and headed northeast.
"Fucking PI."
A horn blared. She opened her eyes. She was half in the right lane. Who cared? Calmly she steered the van back into her lane.
She envisioned the explosion. The creep she'd bought the C4 from promised spectacular. Even setting them up she'd been torn. That plan was a double-edged sword. If it worked, the cabin—her dream home—was gone.
Not what she planned. No.
Told you so.
"Shut up."
You should have just found Danny yourself.
"Not now."
The nag was right. There had been no lack of trying on Sophie's part. For months she had searched for Dan. She sat taller so she could see him through the rearview mirror.
He was sleeping, his body laid out on the bench as if he was in his bed, a peaceful expression on his angel face
Sophie sighed. She should have kept at the hunt herself. Instead, she'd lost patience and hired that irritating PI. Bean was supposed to be a loser only after a quick buck. He had even acted like a loser both on the phone and at that pathetic diner. No professionalism. No receptionist. No office building.
She gripped the steering wheel. With any luck Bean was right there when the house blew. Standing on her porch, or even better, inside. She closed her eyes again. She'd loved that house and had looked forward to living her perfect life with Danny there. Fucker. He'd been nothing but trouble.
She turned up the radio and let the music fill the rolling metal box. It was loud. Violins echoed off the walls. It was not a proper sound stage for Schubert, but it would help soothe Sophie's worn nerves. Carla raised her head for a moment and settled back down.
Let it go. Move forward. She tried to push the rage away. Send it down to that place where it disappeared in her gut in a tiny ball of shit to be flushed away. Anger did her no good. The house was just full of things. Nothing she couldn't replace.
The bigger problem was that Bean and his helpers were so close on her tail. Digging in her business. She wasn't used to people knowing about her, knowing her history or her details. A strange sense of anger and shame filled her. Not that she was shamed by any of her actions. No. Only the few loose ends she'd left behind caused her any embarrassment. One day she would go back and eliminate all those loose ends.
A situation like this called for going on the offensive. No running for Sophie Evers.
She glared at the waitress in the back. She didn't look as comfortable as Danny. She was sitting, her head at an awkward angle. Good. It was time to use that leverage.
The GPS unit said she had one hour, twenty-three minutes until arrival. Sophie needed to hold it together that long. She needed to get those two unloaded, count her losses, and then solidify a new plan. There was lots of stuff at the cabin that could be evidence. But she was sure there was nothing about Indiana. And if there was, the explosion and the incendiary devices should have destroyed all of it. Still, you could never tell with fire. It did what it wanted.
|
19 Souls
|
J. D. Allen
|
[
"mystery"
] |
[
""
] |
Chapter 58
|
A man came running around the back of the house. He was tall, red-headed, and had a dry phone in his hand.
He fell to his knees beside Ava. It was clear he was talking. Some sound was drifting through the haze of Jim's hearing. Not enough to understand completely.
Call maybe. Others? Jim shook his head no. At least he hoped there was no one in that cabin. God, he hoped Sandy wasn't in there.
Jim pointed to his ear and shook his head. The universal I can't hear you gesture earned a returned sign for I called for help.
The man opened up a fanny pack medical kit. Johnny-on-the-spot this guy was. He rinsed Ava's forehead with water from a squirt bottle. She closed her eyes to keep from getting fluid in them. The cut wasn't as bad as Jim had first thought.
Jim got up and strode to the burning structure. All he could think of was the bonfires his buddies used to throw in college. In his past life. Before his world fell to pieces. He'd gotten it together since then. Some. But now he found himself in the middle of what looked like a war zone.
Then it hit him that if Sandy was in that massive bonfire, his heart would break once again.
He was pushed back by a wall of heat as the front of the structure collapsed in on itself. Everything was burning. The place had been rigged to be totally destroyed if disturbed.
He heard the pop and searing of the wood push through the empty numbness of his ears. He could make out the muffled sound of a fire truck coming down the drive. The driver swung it wide, rolling through the shrubbery along the path, to spin it around so he could back closer.
Behind the fire unit was the ambulance. They followed, stopping short of the walkway. Jim's vision blurred as two men and a woman filed out, large plastic cases containing all manner of medical equipment in tow. Ava would be fine.
Behind them were three black SUVs. Backup. At last.
Jim felt a little wobbly. The female medic stopped by his side and tried to steady him.
"I'm good."
She pointed at the grass and pushed him into a seated position. Seemed reasonable. He let his legs give way; she eased him down. "Anything hurt, sir?"
"I couldn't hear."
"Explosion?"
Jim didn't say anything, just gave her a small nod.
She shouted, "Common. Should return fairly fast unless there's damage." She looked in his ear but didn't make any proclamation as to the future health of his eardrums. "Anywhere else hurt?"
"I just had a piece of wood fall on my leg. It's okay."
Without permission she cut straight up his pant leg, all the way to the knee, and yanked it open. There was a large round area that was trying to start a bruise already.
She felt around the wound. "Nothing feels broken." She checked his eyes and had him follow the path of her moving thumb a few times before she left him to go see if the others needed help.
The firemen worked in a choreographed dance with water and time to put out the flames. Jim watched for longer than he intended and then got up to go check on Ava.
|
19 Souls
|
J. D. Allen
|
[
"mystery"
] |
[
""
] |
Chapter 60
|
Jim eased back in his seat. They should be getting close to the small town where they believed Sophie was holed up. Locals had done a drive by and someone was in the house. That's all they were asked to do.
The fruity smell of the Tahoe made his stomach turn. He was in the back seat. Maybe this had been a K-9 unit at some point. He couldn't narrow down the offending scent. Using stinky shit to cover the smell of stinky shit confused him. The vehicle was thick with the strawberry perfume. And not the fresh-picked strawberries like mom puts on shortcake kind of smell. No. It was the medicine-ish, kid's cough syrup kind of strawberry.
Ava's face was pale. A military medic on the plane had popped her arm back into the proper position. It had to hurt like a motherfucker. She now had a brace, a better sling, and a little pain medication. She'd refused anything stronger.
"You shouldn't be here."
"I'm the agent in charge, or have you forgotten?"
"Wow. Um, no, I have not. I was just worried—"
"Don't worry."
He looked out the window. A light rain. Clouds. That was good. Made it darker. Easier to sneak up. Of course, a SWAT team would be doing that.
It churned his gut being so out of control. What if they fucked it up and Sandy was hurt? But no one was concerned about his worries. They were all following some book on tactical and hostage situations. Jim wanted to follow his gut, go in there and strangle that bitch with his bare hands.
They pulled up into the parking lot of a long-ago closed gas station. How a gas station went out of business with the price per gallon so high, he'd never know. There were several police units, five FBI cars, and a tactical van there.
Ava climbed out gingerly and addressed the officer in charge of the Knoblesville police.
Jim hung back. She'd told him pretty clearly that she was in charge from here on out. He leaned against a police car and watched. Still within earshot, of course. The house was a doublewide, north of town. At least fifteen yards from any other structure.
"Well, brother. Looks like Lady Fed doesn't need the likes of us any longer." Double O strolled up and leaned on the car right next to Jim.
"What the hell are you doing here?"
He shrugged, put a toothpick in his mouth like a lollipop. "Was in the neighborhood and thought I'd stop by."
"The neighborhood?"
He shrugged, lit a cig, and handed it to Jim. He needed it. The nicotine wouldn't ease his problems, but it sure made them easier to swallow.
"Ely called. I was at the airport, changed flights." It was good to have one person he could depend on. "The SWAT team decided to wait until full dark to go in."
"Great idea. As long as you aren't being held hostage by a maniac," Jim muttered.
"Look at that. Fifteen cops, at least that many agents." O spit out the toothpick. "The crazy bitch will see all that coming a mile away. She was smart enough to booby trap the house in Cali, she'll have done the same thing here." O situated his jeans by pulling up then down on the waistband. "You know, a couple smart guys could probably get in there quieter and easier than that big SWAT team."
"You think?"
"I do.
"Rental's back there." O motioned behind the mess of official vehicles. "Got GPS and the address."
Ava would kill Jim if they moved in first and messed up her perfectly planned rescue. Only, her plan left one thing to be desired: the element of surprise. Sophie Ryan Evers had time to prepare for it.
"Let's go."
|
19 Souls
|
J. D. Allen
|
[
"mystery"
] |
[
""
] |
Chapter 62
|
"You stole a baton from a cop?" O shook his head.
They made their way past the property at 11103 Southwest Highway. Its driveway led into the dark. No way going in the front door was going to work.
They had gone to the next farm road and cut through the woods on foot. O held his gun at the ready. Jim had managed to find a police baton lying on the hood of a car before they left the checkpoint. "He left it laying around. You know how bad crime is these days."
"Right."
The SWAT team need not have waited. The forest was so dark Jim had a hard time negotiating the stumps and roots. Again, there was no way to be quiet about it when the damned blackberry bushes were reaching out and grabbing his clothing. Did not help going in stealth mode one bit.
They headed toward a couple of lights twinkling through the trees. They eased closer, doing their best to be quiet. Again Jim wondered how the hell he made so much more noise than everybody else. O had at least forty pounds on him and he was ghostlike as he moved around the trunks and over the dried leaves.
They stopped and hunched down behind a couple of downed trees. The trailer wasn't the only building on the property. Closer to them was a shed large enough for a car. A small outdoor light burned on the corner, revealing an ancient tractor rusting behind the shed. The seat and steering wheel were gone. The tires were flat and cracked by time.
For the second time in as many days, Jim was hit by the shockwave from an explosion. This one was smaller, farther away. In the front of the trailer. He and O both ducked for cover.
Jim peeked over the logs. Fire and smoke rose over the trailer.
"Cops came in the front. So much for waiting till dark."
Jim saw movement off to the side. Three men in assault gear were creeping through the woods, moving in unison around the back of the trailer. Jim suspected the formation was mirrored on the other side. They hustled into the yard.
Mistake.
Within seconds one stepped on a mine. The explosion was loud. Jim's not-quite-back-to-normal ears complained.
Guys came in and retrieved the screaming men and dragged them to the relative safety of the woods. They would fall back. Call for more help.
"They'll reconvene," O whispered.
"Probably send in a negotiator."
Ten minutes passed. Nothing moved. Not a curtain. Nobody crossed in front of the back windows. "You think it's another dead end?"
Jim thought about it. Remembered her smug look the morning after she'd … He closed his eyes. The sooner this ended, the sooner he could forget Sophie Evers and move on with his life. Dan wouldn't be so lucky. If he was still alive, he'd lost his mother and his sister to the crazy bitch.
"She's arrogant. She may have had one backup plan, but I doubt she has two."
|
300 The Empire
|
Theo Papas
|
[
"historical fiction",
"Greece"
] |
[] |
Prologue
|
[ Fifty eight years earlier ]
[ Babylon, 538 B.C. ]
Cyrus the Great, ruler of all Asia, grasped his gilt scepter and swept the landscape before him with a direct and focused gaze. He beheld the endless plain of Mesopotamia watered by the imposing river Euphrates. In the distance, a few miles away to the right and left of the river, six miles long and five miles wide, lay the greatest and most glorious city he had seen in all his years of conquest. It was the only city that had resisted until now, the only one he had not yet added to his possessions, the only thorn in the soft underbelly of his vast empire.
"Babylon… the city of cities…" the emperor murmured to himself, impatient yet filled with awe.
He sat on his golden throne atop a wooden platform supported on the shoulders of fourteen dark-skinned carriers. His eyes were squeezed almost shut, like his tight-pressed lips—narrowed not just against the glare, but from anxious concern. Babylon had the best system of defense of all known cities in the world, even better than the renowned Nineveh. Its famous limestone and granite wall was a hundred and fifty feet tall and a hundred feet wide. Two four-horse carriages could run side by side at full speed along the top of that wall, and they would still take quite a long time to cover the fifty-three miles of its perimeter. In front of the wall ran a great trench, sixty feet wide and ten feet deep, filled with water from the Euphrates and encircling the city. The wall was pierced by two huge gates through which the river entered the city from the north and left it at the south, after passing through the whole city. The gate on the north side opened every morning to let in boats filled with every kind of merchandise from all over Asia. It was a gigantic, double gate with one door leading to the world outside the wall and the other to the city inside. When both doors of the gate were closed, its bottom part touched the surface of the river. This made it impossible for anyone, whether mounted or on foot, to get into the city since no one could have swum underwater against the strong current for a hundred feet, the thickness of the wall.
At the center of this rich city with its terrific defenses was the greatest prize any conqueror could desire, the famous tower of Babylon, one of the so-called wonders of the world. Seven floors tall and two hundred and thirty feet high, it dominated not only the city but the whole plain and the two great rivers, the Tigris and the Euphrates. It was the golden temple of the great Babylonian god Bel Marduk. In it served the twenty-four priests who, together with the king, ruled Babylon and all its wealth.
Cyrus blinked his eyes. The glare from the golden roof of the temple blinded him and simultaneously enraptured his mind, while the light glancing off the thousands of blue bricks that adorned the temple stained his face cyan.
He dragged his gaze away from the city, stood up and turned around. Immediately the two generals standing at the back of the throne fell to their knees, bowed their heads to the floor, and touched their foreheads to his feet. His vast army spread out before him from the manmade hill where he stood to the dim reaches of the plain to the east, where sight lost itself in the dull veil of swiftly approaching night. Five hundred thousand front line warriors and five hundred thousand assistants, tens of thousands of workers, servants and merchants, cooks and prostitutes, brought here from all the ends of the empire. His army covered an area greater than the area of Babylon itself.
The Persian emperor raised his golden scepter and held it out, pointing at the city behind him whose image was fading slowly in the soft light of sunset. Then he raised his head imperceptibly towards the heavens and gave thanks in advance to his god, the winged Ahura Mazda, for the conquest of glorious Babylon. This conquest would make him lord and master of all of Mesopotamia and consolidate his empire as the only power in all of Asia, from the Mediterranean Sea to India.
When his prayer of thanks had ended, he returned his scepter to vertical position and struck the wooden floor of the platform three hard blows. The two generals kissed his feet, stood upright and took up their positions before the army. The attack on the unassailable city would begin that same evening.
His plan, inconceivable for a common mind, went into effect the moment the sun hid itself and continued in an unbroken, feverish rhythm until dawn. A great distance from the unassailable walls of the city, massive boulders were dragged to the Euphrates by elephants and thrown in, lessening the flow of its waters. A short way below this curious dam, for a length of several miles, hundreds of thousands of men were lined up, one next to the other, on the two banks of the river. In their hands they held basins woven of reeds, covered with leather and sealed with pitch. Behind them stretched two deep trenches, many miles long, constructed by imperial engineers in the previous weeks.
As soon as it became dark hundreds of thousands of basins were immersed in the now-calm water at the same time and they began rapidly and efficiently emptying it. In a few hours the level of the Euphrates had sunk by several inches. By the time the night was at its darkest, just before dawn, the level of the waters was at the height of the knees of a man of average size.
The glorious moment had arrived. The two generals led foot soldiers and cavalry to the riverbed and drew them up facing the city's great northern entrance. The water lapping the lower edge of the enormous gate had sunk, leaving six feet of empty space. There was enough room for a soldier with all his gear or a horse without its rider to pass through.
Within a short time thousands of Persian soldiers had entered the city. They seized it suddenly, taking inhabitants and defenders in their sleep.
The next morning the gold and blue radiance of the tower of Babylon reflected the light of the morning sun and shone on the face of the emperor who stood at its top, surveying the famous hanging gardens.
Cyrus lowered his head and looked at the thousands of Babylonians who had gathered below the tower, silently awaiting his decree. Around him, along the sides of the roof, kneeled the twenty four priests of the Babylonian god Bel Marduk with their heads bowed.
The emperor raised his imperial scepter and showed it to the crowd. He held it high for a short while, like a flaming sword, for all to see.
Then, with his gaze on the far-away red and gold horizon of the dawn and the bright light of the new day, he lowered it suddenly. With it fell twenty-four sharp swords.
The heads of the priests were cut from their necks and fell into the void. Their headless bodies followed soon after, bathing the townspeople in their sacred blood.
The kingdom of Bel Marduk had ended.
Babylon the Great had fallen.
The Persian Empire dawned with the sun.
|
300 The Empire
|
Theo Papas
|
[
"historical fiction",
"Greece"
] |
[] |
Athens, 514 B.C.
|
The music of kitharas could be heard in all the neighborhoods of Athens around the Acropolis, in all the narrow streets, in all the one-storied and two-storied houses. In every garden, in every temple and in every grove of sacred olive trees. The procession of the Sacred Veil of the great Panathenaia festival was about to start.
Earlier, gymnastics competitions had been held in the three great gymnasia of the city. A little later, the most important music competitions followed. Then there were contests in reciting passages of poetry from the Homeric epics, the Iliad and the Odyssey. Now everything was ready for the festival's grand finale.
The police and the Agora overseers had removed all the prostitutes and drunks from the streets and had personally supervised the cleansing of all the shops, especially the ones that sold meat and fish. The fountains were cleaned, the altars of the gods were purified, the temple of Zeus was polished and the street that led to the walls of the Acropolis was newly strewn with gravel.
Outside the walls the inhabitants of Athens and the foreign visitors waited impatiently for the festivities to begin. For the procession to start and to reach the Acropolis and the temple of the goddess Athena, high above the city. For the animals to be slaughtered and the ceremonies to be solemnized. And then for the sharing out of roasted meat and wine and the great celebration with singing, music and dancing that would follow.
Outside the Dipylon, the west gate of the wall of Athens, a great chariot in the shape of a boat had been made ready. The four chosen virgins, who for a year had been weaving the Sacred Veil they would present as a gift to their favorite goddess, had taken their places on the wooden boat with wheels that symbolized Athens' naval power. They wore simple white robes that left one shoulder bare and their heads were adorned with wreaths of olive branches. In their fingertips they held the golden-yellow veil they had woven with their own hands. The veil showed scenes from the Gigantomachy and the Titanomachy, the great victories of Zeus and the twelve gods of Olympus over the Giants and the Titans.
When the hot sun of July reached the center of the sky, the sign was given for the procession to start. The four virgins raised the veil and set it up on a pole in the center of their wheeled boat, so that it looked like the sail of a ship filled with wind.
The wheeled boat moved slowly up the street, its wheels crunching on the gravel. Behind it came young men leading the hundred oxen for the sacrifices, young women carrying woven baskets full of gifts, musicians with their instruments and citizens of Athens bringing amphorae filled with oil, honey and wine.
The middle-aged Aristogeitonas and the youth Armodios watched the procession start and held their breath. The first stretched out his right arm and put it tenderly around the shoulders of the second. Armodios pressed his lips together and nodded his wreathed head decisively. He looked his beloved Aristogeitonas in the eye and grasped the handle of the sharp knife hidden under his white tunic. The two lovers were ready.
The boat with the stretched veil passed through the gate and entered the city. At a sign from the head of the procession, the two wreathed oxen pulling it turned to the right and took the Panathenaic Way that led through the Agora and ended at the gates of the Acropolis, where the priests of the temple of the goddess Athena were waiting.
Slowly and steadily, the head of the procession approached the sacred precinct dedicated to the female deities and the pedestal standing in front of it. On the pedestal stood the governor of the city, the tyrant Hipparchus, together with his brother Hippias. Their father, Peisistratos, had seized power fifty years before and imposed a brutal tyranny which now, after his death, was carried on by his oldest son. The tyrant Hipparchus was dressed in his glamorous official clothes and looked down with conceit, arrogance and contempt on the people of Athens gathered outside the walls. But when the sacred veil reached his pedestal, he bent his head in a show of humility and respect for the goddess.
The moment had arrived. The lovers moved quickly on both sides of the pedestal. While the tyrant's guard was busy with the ceremony in honor of the sacred procession, first the youth Armodios and then the middle-aged Aristogeitonas climbed quickly onto the wooden pedestal. When they reached the top, they pulled out the knives hidden in their tunics. Aristogeitonas grabbed Hipparchus by the throat and immobilized him. His youthful lover raised his knife and, with a quick movement, buried it in Hipparchus's unprotected chest, twisting it with hatred.
The heart and lungs were shattered instantly.
The tyrant of Athens fell dead.
Democracy had returned to the city that gave it birth.
"The Baptism of Blood"
|
300 The Empire
|
Theo Papas
|
[
"historical fiction",
"Greece"
] |
[] |
Chapter 6
|
Dust and choking heat. The air was like the air in a blacksmith's workshop. As the sun climbed higher in the sky, foreheads were moistened with sweat and faces turned red from the burning rays.
And from excitement. Thousands of people were crowded together under the rock where the Persian fortress and the headquarters of the governor of the city were located. From the western beaches where the Ionian cities were to Susa, the capital of the Persian empire two thousand miles to the east, people had come to Sardis for the annual festival in honor of the Mother Goddess. All those who were faithful or just curious had gathered around the great pits, holding leather bags full of water in their hands and with their heads wrapped in linen cloth soaked in water for protection from the sun. They waited patiently, expectantly, as hour after hour the air grew more and more suffocating from the smell of meat being roasted by the hundreds of peddlers and the odor of thousands of sweating bodies. Pilgrims were everywhere. On the roofs of the imperial limestone buildings, in the branches of the few little trees, crowded together on the surrounding hills, even clinging to the rocks on the hill where the fortress of Sardis was built.
The girl and her nursemaid were not among them. Their prominent places had been chosen by Artaphernes himself, the Persian satrap of the whole province. They sat on bleachers made out of thick canes from the river, right in front of the place of sacrifice. Next to them and around them sat ambassadors of the Persian emperor Darius who had come there from the capital, advisors of the Satrap Artaphernes, commanders of the Persian army, gold traders from Sardis, owners of mines, large landowners and stockbreeders, and all the power and authority of the satrapy.
The girl was worried. She had gone to the baths where they had carefully cleansed her with warm water, had rubbed her skin with the metal scraper, massaged her body and hair with cool water, and perfumed her with sandalwood and incense in all the hidden spots and folds of her unripe body. Finally, her nursemaid had dressed her in her new garments, a colorful Persian robe of cool linen and a high conical hat to protect her head and her clean hair.
Her eyes could not get their fill of the strange and new scene, the immense crowd that filled the whole valley and the hillsides, the proud stances of the guard of the honorary delegation, the plumed costumes of the officials, the precious jewels shining on their bodies. The priests of the goddess, the mystics and their followers. The sanctuary workers who were now setting up special wooden racks above the great pits and the dozens of bulls that waited, shut up in a corral, bellowing and stamping the dry ground with their hooves.
The whole time, her hand stayed in the old, familiar, tender hand of the dear nursemaid who took care of her night and day, and who had been her shadow from the time her eyes first saw the light of day fourteen years before. She as strict as a tutor should be and as tender as any mother, and she was just as absorbed in the scene before them as her charge was. She watched without speaking. For all of her beloved little girl's begging, not a word came from her mouth. Words had no value, they would only cheapen the glorious spectacle that was to follow. Now and then she glanced at the girl's overwrought face and smiled fondly. The fate the gods had assigned to the nursemaid had been hard. She was barren and infertile, alone and unwed, but in the end, her reward had been the precious gift that sat beside her, the girl who had made the years of her old age beautiful from the first time she held her to her breast until now. She was her one and only nurse.
At that moment the girl glanced worriedly at the sky, half closing her eyes against the blinding light.
"The chariot of the sun runs faster than Hermes, the swiftest of the gods. It is already in the middle of the sky."
"Don't worry. Everything is arranged, provided and measured out by the priests."
"Will they have time?"
"Don't worry" her nurse repeated. "The blood will flow in its time..."
|
300 The Empire
|
Theo Papas
|
[
"historical fiction",
"Greece"
] |
[] |
Chapter 7
|
The bull bellowed frantically. Tied with five thick ropes of braided strips of hide and with a forged chain around its neck, it was dragged by ten men while several more goaded it on the rump with sharpened canes. The uproar and the dust kicked up by the maddened brute covered the whole of the little valley, because on this day the god Aeolus had closed up his bags of wind and the city was without a breeze.
Just before the bull arrived at the wooden grate, a man waiting at the edge of the pit stripped off the white tunic he was wearing so that he was naked, smeared himself with aromatic oil and, amid the celebratory chanting of the priests, climbed down into the pit, which was deeper than he was tall. There he kneeled to the earth, prayed to the goddess, and prepared for the ritual cleansing that was to follow.
When the chanting of the priests had stopped, complete silence spread out over the hill. It was as if all mouths had closed at the same time so as not to insult the Mother Goddess with their voices. The girl looked on, fascinated, unable to speak because of suspense and the rapid beating of her heart. This was the great hour of sacrifice. The hour for which she had travelled to Halicarnassus in Caria, to the capital of the satrapy of Sardis.
When the thick ropes were tied to the five stakes thrust deep into the earth around the pit, and the chain on the bull's neck was stretched by the strong arms of temple servants, the bull was immobilized on the wooden grate. Its bellowing and the stamping of its hooves shook the air, foam came from its mouth, which opened desperately, and thick saliva ran down its snout and neck. Its brown coat glistened with sweat, its great eyes stared and its tail waved back and forth feverishly. Perhaps it foresaw the end that was approaching. The girl was sure that the bull knew what was coming.
The high priest made three complete circles around the bull, speaking the sacred words of cleansing and sprinkling it with palm oil scented with vrentheio, the Lydian perfume of musk and lavender. Then he stood in front of the animal, grasped its two horns firmly in his two hands, and raised his voice which pierced the air like the howl of a wolf. The naked man in the pit below the grate raised his head, reciting a hymn to the Great Mother. The horns sounded loudly. Another man, dressed in calfskin, climbed up to the wooden grate and took up position under the bull's head. In his hand he held a double ax. With a sudden movement, amid the bellowing and the sound of hymns, he raised the ax and cut the muscles and tendons of the bull's neck. Then, with a long and broad knife, the man cut through the animal's jugular vein while the priest pulled the horns, stretching the head so that the blood rushed out.
The baptism of blood was well underway. The man in the pit received the waterfall of steaming animal blood ecstatically. His naked body was covered in the hot red liquid and his head was stretched back so that his face would receive the life-giving offering. Above him, the sacrificed animal trembled and shook in a desperate attempt to hold on to life. The bellowing had ceased and had been replaced by a death rattle. The life-giving power of the invincible bull flowed onto the faithful man along with the goddess's blessing. Until the bull fell lifeless on the grate, all the blood drained from its body.
"Unbelievable..." the girl murmured, her eyes wide.
"Ritual cleansing is a great gift from the goddess. It is life and good fortune itself" her governess commented calmly. Then she abruptly became serious. "Don't be afraid" she urged, feeling the trembling of the hand she held in her own.
"I don't..."
"Calm down. You're number eighteen."
"I... I don't think I can..."
"The baptism of blood is a gift from the goddess. You can say the prayers we have learned to calm down. You still have time. But you must do it. Your name is already written in the catalog of the temple and the priests have read the wishes on the sacred alter of her temple. If you do not do it, your hubris will be punished and her wrath will fall upon you. Bad fortune will follow you until the end of your life."
"I don't know if..."
"There isn't any if. You cannot get out of it. Your fate has been decided. Today you will bathe in blood."
|
300 The Empire
|
Theo Papas
|
[
"historical fiction",
"Greece"
] |
[] |
Chapter 8
|
The tenth bull had been sacrificed. The hour was approaching rapidly. Luckily her hands had stopped trembling. As the sun sank into the west, as the pits filled up with blood, the girl felt her body dry out and the beating of her heart slow down while her mind relaxed. It was not just that she was getting used to the sight and her first reaction was fading. The poppy milk that her nursemaid had given her to drink had had a calming effect. After the first few swallows she felt her limbs relax, her spirit strengthen and her will expand, like the sail of a ship with the wind at its tail.
The eleventh bull and she was already anxious to get into the pit herself, to receive the baptism of blood. Yes, the truth was exactly what her nursemaid had just told her. On this day she would bathe in blood. She would receive the goddess's gifts that would accompany her for the rest of her life: well-being, abundance, good fortune. She had to do it. She was impatient to do it.
At the sacrifice of the twelfth bull they were going to leave the seats to go to the sacrificial area. At the fourteenth bull they were going to take their place next to the pit. At the fifteenth bull the priests would take off her robe and cap, leaving her naked, and the temple women would rub her with the perfume of musk and lavender. And then would follow the hymns, the descent into the pit and she would be sprayed with the life-giving blood that would seal her destiny with the gift of the goddess's favor.
"Come on, let's go, it's time..."
She and her nursemaid climbed down the seats made of canes, took the path between two lines of guards with their scaly armor and their long, embroidered trousers and came to the door of the dressing rooms where the faithful gathered to receive the first blessing from the initiate and to prepare for the ceremony.
With the poppy milk flowing through her veins, enhancing her excitement, with the murmuring of the priests ringing in her ears like a divine incantation and with the scent of perfume and incense thick in the air, a sacred inebriation filled the girl. Inside her, in her stomach and her heart and out to the tips of her fingers, she felt the beginnings of a new force and power, and this too was a gift of the goddess, a sure sign of her favor. Her spirit was already flying above Mount Tmolus, it rose to the heavens and reached the kingdom of the gods, the boundless ether. Her feet did not touch the ground. Ecstasy had taken her. She did not think of earthly things or hear words from human lips. She only felt the touch of her nursemaid, pushing her slowly but surely towards the dressing room where they would take off her clothes and prepare her naked body, and wrap her head in the ceremonial cloth dipped in perfume of musk and lavender.
And then it happened.
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Chapter 10
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They moved with what little strength they had left in their stunned bodies. Their legs trembled from fatigue and from the trauma of the slaughter they had seen. They ran desperately, striding barefoot over fallen bodies and around those who were kneeling, about to die, without noticing the cuts on their soles from the sharp pebbles and with no interest at all in the pain in their traumatized joints.
They got no farther than the base of the great central platform. Before they could reach the path leading upwards, they saw Athenian soldiers racing toward them from the left. In a little while they would be upon them. The path was steep and hard to climb, and their feet were slow from fatigue. The soldiers would take them at the beginning of the path and kill them without mercy.
"No! Back!"
The little one's cry stopped the nursemaid in her tracks, and she stood and looked to her side. She to saw the formation of Athenian soldiers running towards them, clashing their swords on their shields. Their faces were twisted with fury, their hands red with blood.
"To the city..." the nursemaid murmured, trembling. "Let's go to the city to hide."
But when they turned their faces toward the city, the city wasn't there. It was all in flames. Thick smoke covered Sardis, a black haze blotted out the sun. The houses, the stores, the groves, even the temple of the god Ahura Mazda built by the Persians after the conquest of Lydia, were burning. Everything was on fire.
The nursemaid looked around her in despair. Her lungs were blocked, feeling the end. Her heart had almost stopped beating. Her mind was paralyzed. "But by Zeus, we're finished..."
"No..."
Unexpectedly, the great god's name had brought an idea to the girl's mind. She looked away from the east, from the burning city, and turned west, to the end of the valley, to the hill where the temple of the goddess Artemis stood.
"The temple. The Greeks will not strike the temple of one of their own goddesses. It is the greatest sacrilege. They won't dare. We'll hide there and ask for protection as supplicants.
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Chapter 12
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The girl ran up to the first dead soldier. She quickly examined his helmet, his breastplate, his leggings and blue cloak. Then she looked at the other soldier. His breastplate was pierced by an arrow and so was his helmet. No, that wouldn't work. The first one was better, his gear was in better condition.
She quickly bent and turned him over. She took off his helmet, then undid the clasp of his cloak, under the throat. She stood up and put the long blue cloak over her own shoulders and fastened the clasp around her own throat. The she took the helmet in her hands and tried to put it on.
Impossible. It was too small. The dead man's head was smaller than her own, even without the abundant masses of braided hair arranged around it. No matter how hard she pushed, the helmet stayed halfway down her head, and it wouldn't cover her neck. She was sweating from her feverish effort, her face had taken on the color of a flaming pyre.
Behind her, around the corner, she heard the heavy steps again. The Athenian soldiers had finished. They were coming. Any moment they would be at her back with their pointed spears and sharpened swords.
The girl did not hesitate for a moment. With the sharp blade of the sword she cut off two thick braids of her hair. Then she tried the helmet again. It was impossible to pull it down so that it hid her face. She raised the heavy sword above her head and used its flat side to push it down with all her strength. With one strong blow to the bronze crown, the helmet went down to her neck, taking the tips of her ears with it and making her eyes water from the pain.
At the moment the Athenian soldiers turned the corner and saw them in the walkway, the girl had her back turned. The soldiers saw a blue cape and a helmet with the characteristic double crest of an Athenian officer.
The girl did not speak. She had taken the stance for a blow, as she had been taught by her military tutor. Completely motionless, her feet at shoulder width, her arm stretched out and her palm firmly grasping the grip of the sword. The metal blade of the sword was held out vertically in front of her and its point touched the breast of her nursemaid, who stared at her, dumbfounded and terrified.
"Artemisia?" she stammered, feeling the point of the sword between her breasts that had withered up with feeding this girl who was now pointing a sword at her. "What are you doing, my child?"
The girl did not answer. She stood motionless, holding her breath, and listened to the exhausted panting of the two men behind her. Until she heard their steps begin again, hesitatingly.
"I am saving my life..." she murmured softly, looking into her nursemaid's eyes. "The fate Clotho has already spun yours out and you are close to death now. The sin is not so great..." she said softly, and with a decisive movement she plunged the sword into the nursemaid's body, piercing her heart and lungs.
The conical Persian hat fell from the aged head.
The body wrapped in its colorful robe fell to the ground.
The nursemaid's eyes were wide open and they still looked as if she could not believe what was happening.
Male laughter, hideous laughter, sounded behind the girl.
"You lost the bet, Pitya" said one of the soldiers behind Artemisia's back. "Our officer didn't take pity on the old woman. You owe me two cups of wine..."
"Damn... And she was wearing jewelry..."
"We can't do anything about that. The officer who killed her will take the jewels."
"Too bad..."
Then there were steps walking away.
Until complete, deep, deadly silence fell. At least, it fell in the mind and soul of the girl, Artemisia from Halicarnassus, the only daughter of the Satrap Lydgamis.
"May the gods forgive me..." she murmured and kneeled next to the lifeless body of her beloved nursemaid, closed her eyes, and covered her motionless forehead with the sacred ceremonial veil, dipped in the perfumes of musk and lavender.
Then she kissed the wrinkled cheek once, took out a silver coin, opened the governess's mouth and placed it softly on her tongue.
"To pay the boatman who carries you to the kingdom of the underworld..."
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Chapter 83
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"They are afraid, it's obvious" muttered Mervalos, looking at the low Greek triremes bobbing up and down on the waves like walnut shells, and then at their own heavy vessels with the raised rails and the dozens of marines on their decks. "We'll make one mouthful of them…"
"They are afraid, my lady."
"How can you be so sure of that, Diomedes?"
"They underestimated our power. Now that they are close to us, they have realized their mistake and they're stopping. What else could it be?"
"Only the mind of that cursed Themistocles knows" Artemisia answered her helmsman, her heart boiling at the thought of the Athenian's betrayal. He had made a fool of her and the emperor at the same time. Xerxes was famous for his rage and if there was no glorious victory after this, then she herself was sure to be one of the victims. "By Artemis, if we win and I get out alive, I'll tear him to pieces with my own hands," she swore to her protecting goddess.
In vain, because as everyone knows, the oaths of pride always give way before the commands of love.
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Chapter 84
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The Greek ships stayed still at the center of the straits, a position which is very difficult for a ship to hold without dropping its heavy anchor and with the wind hitting it from the side. The rowers did not pull the oars out of the water at all, but moved them back and forth in a short, rapid motion, their hands and shoulders numb from the uninterrupted effort.
"If we have to do this much longer, the men will be exhausted before we attack."
"Who told you we were going to attack?" Themistocles calmly answered his anxious petty officer.
"Well then what are we going to do?"
"Go backwards slowly… Softly… Without turning, stern first…"
His order was transmitted soundlessly through the little white cloths stretched at the sterns of the Greek fleet, in accordance with the plan Themistocles had laid out in the last war council they held before they sailed.
Very slowly the Greek ships started to row back again, towards Salamis. They were retreating, it was obvious that they were retreating. And without any coordination, giving the impression that they had been overcome by awe and terror. Exactly as Themistocles wanted.
"Are we leaving? Are we giving up?" asked the helmsman with his great oars raised.
"It is wise to known when and how to retreat" he answered him. "Isn't that what bulls do before they charge?"
The ill-organized retreat of the Greek fleet continued for about two hundred yards, until the ships had got back to the calm waters and slowed their pace.
That was the moment when the great horn and the drums were heard from the other side. The Persian ships had been ordered to attack by the emperor and their drummers began to give the rhythm to their rowers. The marines and archers took up battle position at the prows and the rails to the side. The captains raised and put on their armor and their helmets. The drummers quickened the pace and the black Phoenician ships lunged forward in pursuit of the terrified Greeks.
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Chapter 85
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"Avast and battle position!"
The white flags were taken down from the sterns and red ones were hung in their places. The Greek ships stopped abruptly and with the help of the helmsmen and the calm waters, they quickly drew up in a straight formation, one next to the other, with their rams pointing forward.
"Avast! Stay still again!"
Themistocles' order seemed at least paradoxical, since the enormous Phoenician ships were bearing down on them from the end of the straits at full speed, with their short, heavy rams tearing through the water. Everyone knew that standing still at the moment of clash and ramming could be fatal for a ship. It wouldn't have the speed to maneuver, and it wouldn't have built up the momentum to strike.
"Avast? Are you sure?" shouted Cimonas from the deck of the Aisia. "In a little while they'll hit us!"
"You're too much of an aristocrat to know the secrets of the sea… And it's time for you to learn… Avast!" Themistocles repeated with certainty, looking straight ahead and calculating the speed and the distance.
"May the god Poseidon help us…"
As the Persian ships continued relentlessly on course, the great biconvex bows on their decks were strung and hundreds of arrows were shot up almost vertically and in bursts, like a sudden summer storm. At that angle of shooting they would fall from a great height, killing the marines on the Greek decks as well as the unprotected rowers on the highest bench.
But that did not happen. The wind took the arrows and pushed them aside while they were still high in the air. At the same moment the Persian archers lost their footing and could not aim right, because the Persian ships had now reached the center of the straits, the point with the strongest wind.
As the wind blew through the black rigging and the curly-horned goats at the prows, the raised decks of the gigantic Phoenician ships changed from an advantage against the enemy to a disadvantage against the wind. With their high sides exposed to the strong wind they rose and fell uncontrollably, while at the same time leaning to the right.
The farther they sailed the more difficult it was to keep to their original course. And it was even more difficult to stay in formation. They started to turn in spite of all the will of their captains and the best efforts of their oarsmen. After a few minutes of exposure to the strong wind their rams were turned to the side and they drifted to windward. But in spite of their unusual and dangerous position, they did not change course. That would have looked like fear and retreat, and it was unthinkable to show fear under the eyes of the emperor, who was watching the attack from his throne. From the moment they received his order and started out, there was only one choice. Forward and only forward. That was what they did, hoping to cross the dangerous center of the straits as quickly as possible. Luckily the Greeks were panicking and terrified. And anyway, not even Ahura Mazda himself would be able to protect them when they were exposed like that.
Themistocles waited. He watched them and his heart felt like it was pounding on top of his metal armor. His plan had unfolded exactly as he wanted it to. Now the great moment had arrived. The moment that would decide everything.
When he saw the first Persian ships enter the smooth waters, he raised his hand high. Then he brought it to the side of his mouth. He waited one or two moments and then shouted in his stentorian voice.
"Full speed ahead! Attack speed!"
At the same instant blue cloths were raised on all the sterns of the Greek ships. From their decks sounded the piercing trumpets and pipes playing the martial hymn of the Greeks. The captains of the whole fleet gave the command to attack, while from the mouths of the rowers came the passionate verses:
Forward, children of Greece
set your country free, set your children free,
your wives, the temples of your ancestral gods,
the tombs of your ancestors
now the struggle is forever…
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Chapter 87
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On the Cassiope, Artemisia was trying in vain to maneuver her ship into battle position. To port and starboard her other four ships were crowded, before her was the stern of a ship from Lycia and behind her the bow of another from Cyprus. If she rowed backward so as not to ram the ship in front of her, she was in danger of being rammed by the one behind her. The situation was hopeless and the only thing she could do was to keep a safe distance so as not to suffer damage without even being in the battle.
But that would not last long, and she knew it. The lookout high on the mast had informed her that the Greeks had sunk many ships of the first line and that they were putting pressure on the whole eastern side of the Persian formation. She looked back unconsciously toward the mountainside where the emperor sat on his throne, surrounded by his generals, his advisors and his mages.
"Foolish, by Artemis, foolish and incompetent in sea warfare. All these ships will cripple each other without the Greeks having to lift so much as a finger."
She climbed up to the curved ornament of the stern and tried to watch the course of the battle to the west, where the elite divisions of the Phoenicians were drawn up. If those managed to beat the Greek divisions across from them, the Greek formation would break and an empty space would be created, relieving the pressure on the center and the east side.
She could not make much out. The atmosphere created in the battle by dozens of clashing ships caused a haze that was impenetrable to human eyes. Also, the heavens were covered by black clouds and the clear morning light was lost. So she could not even see which Greek ships were battling in front of her. She hoped though, hoped with all the strength of her spirit, that they were Athenian. She wanted to find him in front of her. She wanted to make him pay for his betrayal. Themistocles. Cunning Themistocles. Devious Themistocles. Charming Themistocles.
She cursed herself because even now, even after his betrayal and the trap he had set for her, her heart still yearned for him. She was very young and she was a woman, but she was already a famous warlord. She was an amazon who did not hesitate to throw herself into the fire of battle. And she did it in the Greek way: not looking on from the rear and giving orders, but leading her troops and ships herself. And yet, when she was with Themistocles she still thought like a simple-minded woman, destined to melt with love and lose her head at the thought of a man.
"But whatever happens, we have something in common. That cannot change. Maybe that's why sometimes…"
She stopped her monolog, spat in disgust and got down from the stern. The heartbreaking cries of the Persians and the triumphant shouts of the Greeks were growing stronger and stronger. It was a sure sign that the Greek ships had broken the Persian front line at several points and were now approaching their second line. She had to take precautions before they came within ramming distance. She had to order her ships to take up a defensive position to repel the attack. But it was not at all easy to do that in these unbelievably crowed conditions.
"Raise the oars!" she shouted to the captains of the ships next to her, to gain space for the rowers to push the Cassiope forward as soon as she gave the order. "Stay like that and when my ship leaves, each of you in turn take up my position to extricate yourself and follow me. First the two ships to port and then the two to starboard" she finished her orders to her captains.
Then she put on her helmet and grasped her sword tightly.
"Hands on the handles of the oars, everyone in readiness!" she shouted to her petty officer, who immediately relayed the order to the rowers in the hold.
"Row forward?" asked the petty officer.
"Not yet. When I give the order" shouted Artemisia and she began to climb the mast to watch the course of battle with her own eyes.
She did not need to climb to the top. The wake of a tremendous collision shook every board of the Cassiope.
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Chapter 88
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Eyes narrowed.
Lips hermetically sealed.
Xerxes watched the sea battle with increasing discontent, unable to believe his eyes. His ships were crowded together and they were retreating, leaving an empty space to the Greeks, a space that was very useful in this narrow strip of sea.
"Who commands the Phoenicians?" he asked at a certain point, through his teeth.
"Their leader is their king, Mervalos."
"And the Persian admiral?"
"Your brother, Ariavanis."
Xerxes sighed heavily, trying to rid himself simultaneously of his worry and of the rage that overwhelmed him. Then, feeling somewhat calmer, he scanned the sea battle before him once more.
On the eastern side, the Ionians were under great pressure from the Greek advance, but they seemed to be holding out and in some cases, sporadically, to be counterattacking. They had a huge advantage in weaponry and sooner or later they would prevail, since they could afford to lose many ships without reversing the balance of forces. In the center things seemed to be proceeding just as steadily, with the Persian lines holding in spite of the fierce attack they had sustained. But on the west side of their formation, the situation had reversed itself and things looked dangerous. That was the point where his brother Ariavanis was fighting, the point where the elite divisions of Phoenician ships were drawn up against the Athenian ships.
Those divisions were almost torn apart. Some of their ships had been completely destroyed, and nothing remained of others except some broken boards and oars floating on the waves. There were many ships that continued fighting, but they retreated constantly and were in danger of being crushed on the rocks. The longer the emperor watched, the more clearly he saw that the situation was not just dangerous, it was almost desperate. The Phoenicians were being attacked on two fronts simultaneously, from the front and from the side. The forty Greek ships that had withdrawn before the battle had now returned and were striking from the vulnerable starboard side. No matter how well trained and well armed a fleet is, it is still difficult for it to fight off a coordinated double attack. That is true of battles on land and even more true of battles on the sea, as the enraged Xerxes now saw.
"And yet… It is impossible for us to be defeated. Impossible… The Persian army is invincible…" he murmured and raised his eyes to the heavens in a plea to the god of the sun. But the god of the sun had hidden himself behind a thick veil of clouds as if he were abandoning them at the critical moment.
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Chapter 89
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With the help of the ships of Adeimantos that had suddenly returned, the Phoenician fleet was rapidly pushed back to the east. The last lines ran aground on the rocks off the coast and were smashed to pieces. The Persian marines sank straight to the bottom in their heavy armor, while the Phoenician rowers who tried to swim away were mown down by javelins and arrows from the decks of the fast approaching Greek ships. The frothy sea was died red and severed hands, feet and heads bobbed in the water along with intestines and pieces of wood from smashed ships.
"They are leaving. The Phoenicians are running for the eastern exit."
"They don't have any other choice" Themistocles answered his helmsman. "If they stay, they won't have a single ship left."
"Shall we pursue them? Full speed ahead?
"No."
"No?"
"Let them go. They cannot escape. The exit from the straits is blocked. They will fall on their own ships trying to get away."
"Then the battle is over for us?"
"The second line of our ships will stay. The first line, advance to the center to help the ships from Megara. Helm to starboard."
The Artemis leaned far over and made the turn.
After the Phoenicians they had to deal with the Egyptians and the Ionians.
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Chapter 91
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"It is the Cassiope, the ship of Artemisia."
The messenger had just returned from the eastern lookout, bringing the answer to the question the emperor had asked a short time earlier.
Xerxes nodded and told his personal scribe to note down the name on his papyrus.
"Why?" asked Mardonius, who had expected her to finally get the punishment her insolent and disobedient character deserved.
"She shall inscribed in the Orasagon… She deserves it…" the king answered him.
"The role of imperial benefactors?" asked Mardonius, stunned by the unexpected answer. "Her treachery is undeniable."
"It was not treachery."
"The ship she hit was not Greek, Great King. It was ours. It was the ship of Damasythymos, king of…"
Xerxes raised his hand tiredly, commanding him to stop. "I know. But again, I believe it was not treachery. It was a struggle to survive, to save her life and the lives of her men. And in such a struggle, everything is allowed. If we had more commanders like Artemisia, we would have avoided this disaster…"
The words of Xerxes faded inside the bitter taste of defeat in his mouth as red-hot iron fades in ice water. His hand went limply to the armrest of his throne and his body reclined in a posture of exhaustion and resignation. But his gaze remained fixed on the straits before him which were full of oars, planks, broken sterns, half sunk keels, human limbs and broken bodies. He took a deep breath and sighed, breathing out forcefully in an attempt to release all of his pent-up frustration.
"My men fight like women and my women like men…" he murmured slowly and tonelessly.
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Chapter 53
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"Wars are not won by repetition" Leonidas was saying at the same moment.
"What do you mean?"
"Wars are won by surprise. Tomorrow we will not draw up on the field of battle. Now the Persians know our tactics. Their generals will have studied our movements and taken their measures."
"So we're not going to fight?" Dienekes asked, dumbfounded.
"Who said anything like that?" Leonidas answered, smiling.
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Chapter 54
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The next morning the Spartans did not gather their phalanx, did not raise their spears or go out before the wall. The Persian scouts looked for them in vain from their raised lookouts.
The sun was high in the sky but the area in front of the Spartan wall was still empty. Even the gate with the sliding wooden door at its center remained fast shut. Higher up, on the bastions of the Greek wall, not a single crested helmet could be seen. The place looked eerie and abandoned.
"Maybe they have left" Mardonius said to himself when he read the reports from his scouts. "They fought one battle, caused some damage, and retreated to wait for us somewhere else. Or maybe they simply ran away when they understood they won't always be this lucky."
"Yesterday they won a great victory. No one abandons a victorious field of battle that quickly" said Hydarnes, skeptically.
"But the reports are clear. There is no one on or before the wall."
"But behind it?"
"Behind the wall they cannot fight. They cannot defend it. No one wins a battle by hiding" Mardonius insisted, looking at Xerxes who was sitting on his throne outside his tent and gazing at Thermopylae four miles away. "They have left. Their city is many days march to the south. It is more likely that they want to fight the next battle nearer their own territory. My agents in Athens and our friends from the city of Argos report that the rest of the Spartan army is barricaded in a narrow spot called Isthmos a hundred and fifty miles south of here."
Xerxes did not speak. He looked at the battlefield and the narrow pass for a little while and then turned his gaze back to the camp. But he did not look either at Mardonius or Hydarnes. He looked at his servant, Patiramphi, who stood beside him holding the golden cup with perfumed water.
"Go and call Dimaratos. He will solve the problem for us," he ordered him.
The exiled king of Sparta, who had found refuge in Xerxes' court and was now repaying him for his magnanimity by following him and advising him on the campaign, came to the great tent wearing a simple white chiton without ornaments or jewelry. He bowed before the Great King and then retreated a few steps and stood to attention. A strange thing for a Spartan to do, even in exile, but ingratitude is also a great sin for a Spartan.
"I am listening, King of Kings."
Xerxes briefly told him of Mardonius' assumption and the objections of Hydarnes.
Dimaratos did not hesitate for a second. He replied as if he did not need to think at all. "Mardonius is mistaken. A Spartan never abandons the field of battle. He either triumphs or dies."
"How can you be so sure?" Mardonius was indignant. "You have been away from your city for ten years. Everything could have changed."
"Fish may grow legs and horses may grow scales, but the law of Sparta does not change. It has been followed with iron discipline for forty generations."
"You are sure, then, that Mardonius is mistaken?"
"Absolutely. Spartan warriors do not leave."
"Then where are your famous warriors?" Mardonius asked angrily, pointing at the empty field of battle. "Are they hiding behind their wall like chickens?"
Dimaratos shrugged his shoulders. "I do not know. But I will give you a piece of advice, general" he said, turning his gaze to Mardonius. "Do not go to find them with stalks of wheat in your hands. You will need spears. Many spears…"
"I know how to go and find them, Dimaratos" Hydarnes answered him, and came closer.
"How?"
"The same way they found us yesterday…"
"Do whatever you want as you have planned it. The only thing I ask is to pass the straits and march quickly towards Athens. Even though yesterday it seemed very difficult to me" Xerxes muttered tiredly. Then he turned away and walked to his private apartments without saying another word.
In spite of Mardonius' optimism and Hydarnes' plans, his mind was on a phrase he had heard a few hours before. A phrase said with certainty and courage in a woman's voice, raised against all of his generals: You will not achieve anything. Everything will be decided on the sea…
"Everything will be decided on the sea…" he muttered now, thoughtfully repeating her words.
"Bring Artemisia to me… And inform the bath attendants…"
"To prepare the hot water and aromatic oils for you?"
"Not for me. For Artemisia…"
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Chapter 55
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He looked at the yellow cloth of the ceiling with the intensity of a priest before carrying out a ritual. His gaze motionless, his lips pressed together, lines of thought on his forehead. Not a word had come from his mouth for some time.
Artemisia sat and turned towards him, looking him in the eyes. "Can I be of service to you, my king?"
He did not break his silence or lower his eyes. The fabric of the ceiling continued to monopolize his gaze.
Artemisia sat a little higher than his swarthy chest. She opened her red lips and passed her tongue over them to moisten and soften them. The she lightly touched his hairless chest and her hand slipped lower, to his penis that still shone in the half light of dusk, covered with her fluids.
Her lips opened again and drew all of it in, her tongue playing upon it with the artistry of Sappho and her daughters as she had been taught by those who came to Halicarnassus from the island of Lesbos.
In spite of the undeniable hardness of his member and the slight tremor brought on by his pleasure, the king touched her ebony hair and pulled her softly upwards.
Artemisia sat up and looked at him in surprise. Unpleasant surprise.
"Don't you like me anymore?" she asked in a trembling voice. Everyone knew what happened to the king's mistresses when he lost interest in them.
Xerxes smiled for the first time in many hours. Faintly, but he smiled. "It's not that."
"Then what?"
He took his gaze from the ceiling and sat up on the pillows of the bed. "I lost many men yesterday…" he said dejectedly.
Artemisia, who was still holding his penis in her fingers, felt it loosen like dough placed in warm water. She opened her palm and, with two quick kisses to his underbelly, she got up and sat beside him, looking at him attentively.
"You will win, my king. Everyone knows it. No tree can withstand the sweeping wind, no matter how strong its roots are."
"I will win, but at what price?" he answered with melancholy. "You have been right every time you have spoken so far, and you do not hesitate to risk your head by saying what you think in front of everyone."
"It will not happen again."
"Do not be hasty like Mardonius. You will make mistakes."
"I do not understand."
"I want you to help me."
Artemisia sat up and looked at him, puzzled. "How?"
"You are Greek…"
"I am the queen of Halicarnassus and a subject of the empire" she hastened to explain.
"Your roots are Greek, their blood flows in your veins" Xerxes continued undisturbed. "You speak their language and believe in the same gods. I want to learn about the Spartans. I want to understand. Tell me. I trust you, but I don't trust Dimaratos."
"I cannot tell you much, my king, beyond what the whole world knows. They are fearless fighters, the best in the world. Many of our cities are descended from common ancestors with Sparta, but Halicarnassus has ties to Athens."
She felt his muscles spasm when he heard the hated name. And his skin tighten like a ship's sail in the wind.
"Tell me about Athens then."
"Hippias knows it better."
"Hippias is a dotard who thinks only of revenge and becoming tyrant again. He advised my father on the last campaign and the advice led to catastrophe. I will get rid of him when he ceases to be useful. Tell me about the Athenian soldiers. Are they like the Spartans?"
"Athens is not famous for its army, but for its navy. Its ships and its sailors are its great strength."
"Sailors did not beat us at Marathon."
"They are neither such great fighters nor such upright men as the Spartans are. You do not have as many reasons to admire them in war. They talk a great deal and they quarrel a great deal, but just because of that they also think a great deal. That is their great advantage. Thought. The Athenians would never be in a battle like the one you saw yesterday and today."
"Hippias and our spies in Athens have spoken to me of a certain Themistocles. Do you know him?"
The muscles of her body tightened. She fought to hide the reddening in her cheeks and the fear in her eyes. She wondered for a moment whether the king knew something about herself and Themistocles. Whether someone had spoken to him. She tried to guess. It was impossible. His eyes were fixed on her and motionless, like black nails.
"Do you know him?" Xerxes repeated the question insistently.
"Yes. If Leonidas is the famous hand of the Greeks, Themistocles is their cunning mind. Ten times more dangerous, and he is not lacking in valor either. He convinced the Athenians and the other Greeks that they must confront you on the sea."
"Foolish. If the Spartans stop our army and we cannot pass, then the sea will be irrelevant. If we defeat them and pass, then it will still be irrelevant."
"Wrong" she answered curtly. She had refound her usual self confidence when the conversation left Themistocles and came back to warfare.
"Wrong?"
"If our fleet does not come in time, our army will not be stopped by Leonidas but by hunger. Whoever dominates the sea dominates the world. In this war, the sea will determine the victor."
Her moment had come. Artemisia jumped nimbly from the bed, pulled the carpet that covered the floor of the tent to the side, picked up a rod and drew a map of the area on the beaten ground, as she remembered it from the relief on the table of the council of war.
Then, using the rod, she showed him the positions of the Persians and the Greeks on land and sea. She explained her plan quickly, emphatically, persuasively.
"If we use our fleet, we can outflank their positions, disembark our soldiers to their south, and surround them. No army can fight on two fronts at the same time. Not even the Spartans."
"Intelligent…"
"But there is one problem, my king."
"What?"
"To do that we have to destroy the Greek fleet guarding the sea straits and the passes that is lying at anchor at Artemisio," she answered emphatically. "We must first defeat Themistocles, its commander…"
Xerxes sighed. "We Persians do not know the sea, we are men of the plains and deserts."
"But the Phoenicians know it. They are the best sailors in the world and they are your subjects."
"Exactly. They are my subjects. I do not trust them for such an important mission. Besides that, they are merchants. Men of money, born to buy and sell…" he added suddenly and fixed his eyes on her. "Whereas you…"
"I am also your subject."
"Not only that," he said meaningfully and stroked her head tenderly. "You also know about naval war. Your country is a sea-going state and you command your fleet yourself."
"That is true."
"Will you help me, then?"
"How?"
"By helping my brother Achaimenes and my fleet destroy the Greeks. I know you know Themistocles, the commander of the Greek fleet. I had reports from Halicarnassus. He came to your palace. That man now commands the enemy fleet."
Silence. Heavy, intolerable silence.
"Am I wrong, Artemisia?"
"No, my lord."
"Destroy him!" Xerxes said suddenly, his eyes shining with rage. "Destroy him and put your plan into practice."
"Themistocles or his fleet?"
"I am not interested in one man, no matter how big his reputation is. Without his fleet, Themistocles is naked, a man without weapons, without power."
"I will do it," her answer came immediately and decisively. "But we don't have time, my king. You know that. We must hurry."
"In the morning they informed me that our fleet is anchored at Afetes, across from the Greek fleet, half a day's journey from here by fast horse. Leave at once and do whatever you think is necessary. With you will come two royal messengers so you can inform me immediately. If we manage to destroy their fleet and transfer part of our army to the south of the Spartans as you propose, everything will be over soon."
In a few minutes Artemisia had dressed and left the royal tent.
With anxiety and a pounding heart.
And not just because she was back with her ships again.
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[
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"Greece"
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Chapter 56
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The Immortals. The renowned, elite imperial guard. Professional soldiers, terrifically impressive, trained hard in many years of war from India to Egypt. But not all of them. It was only one of their battalions, one thousand out of ten thousand.
They resembled priests at a ceremony. They were wearing their colorful garments—red tiaras on their heads, sky blue caftans to their thighs, porphyry cloaks and green trousers. When they marched together, they looked like a moving rainbow. Their eyes were painted with black kohl and their foreheads with green oxidized copper. On their necks, wrists and fingers they wore their best golden jewelry that flashed in the strong midday sun. The quivers, bows and arrows were slung on their backs, their sheathed swords at their sides, and in their hands they held their spears, engraved with the royal symbol, a golden pomegranate, shined to perfection by their attendants. It was an imposing sight, unquestionably magnificent, worthy of an imperial army.
Behind them a wall of dust confused the sight and created an imposing background that heightened the impression. The attendants of the Immortals, who followed their masters everywhere, had been ordered to carry branches with them and to drag them over the dry ground. Farther back, the other nine thousand Immortals stamped their feet on the ground, stirring up even more dust and creating a rhythmical pandemonium as if the underworld were quaking.
"Nobody move…" Leonidas gave the order softly to the watchers standing on the wall above them, watching the advance of the battalion of Immortals from cracks in the cliff, unseen themselves.
Beneath the watchers, with their backs to the wall, the attendants were spread out. Soldiers who were not omoioi and equal citizens of Sparta, but helped the army as light infantry, armed with slingshots from which they shot round lead pellets weighing thirty grams, that were easy to carry in large amounts. Behind the double wooden gate in the wall stood a small phalanx of sixty Spartan fighters in a long rectangle with its narrow side four yards long, the length of the gate in the wall.
A long way farther back, the rest of the Spartans were drawn up with all their gear, ready for battle.
"Three hundred feet and closing" called the watcher from the wall.
"Wait" Leonidas said calmly to the phalanxes of his soldiers.
"How long? If they get too close and they have siege machines, the wall won't take it" asked Dienekes.
"They can't. We broke the dams and the ground is muddy. They won't be able to carry them here."
"They can carry ladders."
"They won't touch the wall. They won't get there."
"Two hundred feet…"
"Load the slings" Leonidas ordered the attendants.
Then he looked at the four files of warriors waiting for him behind the gate in the wall. Fifteen lines deep. Sixty men in the first, peculiar phalanx of the attack he was preparing.
"A hundred and fifty feet."
"Weapons at the ready."
In one movement, without making a sound, the Spartans of the first phalanx behind the wall lowered their helmets, picked up their shields, and raised their spears.
"A hundred and thirty feet."
"Wait. Don't move. Surprise is everything."
With a nod, Leonidas ordered the two hewn trunks barring the gate to be taken down.
"A hundred feet."
His last glance was to his back. Behind the first phalanx were four more, ready to follow the first wave of the attack. The double transverse crests of the officers' helmets waved in the light breeze. The vertical crests of the soldiers gave a magnificent height to their formation. Their shields flashed in the sun. Their spears pierced the heavens.
Everything was ready.
Leonidas lowered his helmet.
"Sixty feet."
"Now!"
The gate in the wall opened. Dozens of lead missiles left the slings of the attendants simultaneously, like a torrential metal rain.
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Chapter 58
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He withdrew, enraged and frustrated, to his apartments, and lay on his bed thinking about the unexpected, unheard of defeat of his enormous army by a handful of fighters for the second day in a row. He lay still while the tears drew lines and made paths over his dark face. Not from grief for the lost Immortals, but from humiliation.
Slowly, slowly, while time passed and the heavy hand of melancholy gradually loosened its grasp, Xerxes' mind turned to Artemisia's plan. The more he thought about her words the more convincing they seemed. Once more she was right. Things were exactly as she had said. There was no way out on the dry land, no matter how crushing his numerical superiority was. Her plan on the sea was perhaps the only solution, since in spite of his order that gold and silver from his treasury should be given to any local who could lead the army through the high mountains and take him around to the rear of the Spartans, no one had appeared that whole day.
The tent's curtain opened suddenly, interrupting his thoughts, and his personal attendant appeared in the opening.
"My king…"
"Not now, Patiramphi."
"Mardonius just arrived with someone and is asking to see you."
"Tomorrow. Today has been tiring. More than tiring. Tragic. I lost many of my best men, nobles from the court of Susa, beloved friends and my brother, Avrokomi. I must mourn and perform libations to the Great God. My brother will pass the bridge of the Great Judge tonight. Call the priests…"
But Patiramphi did not move.
"Call the priests and the mages!" Xerxes repeated imperiously, surprised at his servant's slowness.
Behind him, in the door of the tent, Mardonius appeared. He came into the bedroom and stood before the emperor, looking at him intensely.
"I have told you that I do not wish to see anyone, Mardonius. Not even you!"
"Then do not see me…" his commander in chief answered enigmatically. "But you must see the man I am bringing with me."
"Why?" asked Xerxes, wondering at his general's insistence.
"Because he will bring us the victory tomorrow."
The emperor laughed sarcastically. "Are you bringing a god with you?" he asked.
"No. I am bringing a Greek."
Xerxes sat up in confusion. "A captive?"
"No. Free. He came of his own free will."
"A deserter?"
"No."
"Then what? Why did he come? And how did he get here?"
"By your orders."
"My orders? Who is he?"
"His name is Ephialtes…" Mardonius said slowly, and smiled meaningfully. "And he is the one you asked for… The one who will lead us over the mountain…"
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[
"historical fiction",
"Greece"
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Chapter 60
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The moonlight gleamed on the ornaments as the figures walked hastily up the narrow path between the steep canyons of Mount Kallidromo.
A few hours earlier, immediately after the night's trumpets gave the signal for silence, half the force of Immortals, having in the meantime replaced the huge numbers of men they had lost, had gathered as silently and secretly as they could at the edge of the Persian camp a few miles to the west. There, the five thousand men and Hydarnes, who had been made head of the enterprise, met Ephialtes, the Greek traitor who would lead them over the mountain for a leather purse full of gold from the Persian treasury.
Now, while the moon was high, the Persian soldiers quickly marched over the Anopaia road that cut the mountain in half, crossing its gorges by passes carved in the rock by rushing waters from the winter rains.
"How long will we need, Greek?"
"About six hours, my lord. Dawn will find us on the other side of the mountain, behind their position."
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[
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"Greece"
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Chapter 61
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The small boy was still out of breath. The sheepskin he wore next to his flesh was soaked with sweat and the clay amulet hanging on his chest, carved with the form of the goddess Artemis, went up and down like a little boat on a stormy sea.
"Are you sure?"
"It is summer, my master's sheep are still high on the mountain. I watch them."
"And you saw them?"
"Yes. They went over the path. They were wearing strange clothes, colorful. They spoke a language I didn't understand."
"Were there many?"
"They walked by for a long time. Their voices woke me. I watched them, but I could not count them in the darkness and I was afraid to come closer."
"Someone has betrayed us. It is impossible for the Persians to have known that difficult path" commented Dienekes.
"It is easy for the tongue to be loosened when the eye sees gold" murmured the diviner Megistias. "Unfortunately, the omens were right…"
"Perhaps the thousand Phocaeans at the exit of the path stopped them."
Dimophilos, who knew them better, smiled bitterly. "Do not place your hand in the fire, Dienekes."
Leonidas did not comment on what he said. "Gather the officers" he told Dienekes calmly.
"The Spartans?"
"All of them. We are all equal here in battle and in death."
A little while later, around the extinguished central fire of the camp, the officers of the alliance, those that were still alive, gathered to make their decisions.
Just before they started to talk, the scout they had sent out earlier arrived, dismounted from his horse and announced that the Phocaians had abandoned the exit of the path and had run away to the hill a little farther back. The Persians ignored them and marched towards the sea. In a few hours they would be there.
Leonidas looked to the east, which was turning grey. "Before the sun climbs high, they will have closed off the road that leads south towards central Greece and Athens. They will have surrounded us."
"Can we retreat before they close off the road?" asked Dimophilos.
Dienekes looked at him as if he had just heard the strangest thing in the world. "Retreat?"
"In a little while they will surround us. What are our chances?"
"Chances?" This time it was not Dienekes who wondered, but the Spartan Maronas. His left hand hung lifeless at his side. The tendons had been cut and the fingers were dead. But his face was like his cloak, red with rage. "The chances don't matter. You cannot go into battle calculating your chances like a merchant at an auction. We can fight on both fronts. We can face them."
"Until when?" shouted Philaretes, the leader of the Arcadians. "What does it matter whether we resist until morning or evening? Or even until tomorrow or the next day? In the end we'll be defeated. That's what logic tells us."
Dienekes opened his mouth to disagree, but Leonidas' hand stopped him.
"You are right, Philaretes…"
Dienekes' mouth closed suddenly. He looked at his king in amazement. So did Maronas and his brother Alpheos, sitting beside him. The Spartans could not believe their ears when they heard those words from their king.
Would the Spartans break their law for the first time in their history?
Would they retreat?
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[
"historical fiction",
"Greece"
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THEMISTOCLES
|
[ Athens, Greece ]
Dozens of voices sounded together, high up on the rock of the Acropolis, before the sanctuary of Athens. The eighteen-year-old youths of the city were giving the Ephebic Oath.
I will fight alone and with others
and when die I will leave my country
stronger than I received it.
I will willingly obey those who adjudicate
and whatever the people establishes with a joint decision...
A short time before, on the hill across from the Acropolis where the democratic assembly of Athens met, they had received the highest title of honor, the title of Citizen of the Athenian Democracy. That same day they received their honorary weapons, the shield and spear.
Now, dressed in white cloaks, they were lined up before the temple, right hands raised. They proudly repeated the words of the official oath of the democracy, read out from a papyrus by the wise adult man appointed by the assembly to supervise them.
Immediately after the end of the ceremony, each of those eighteen year old youths would officially be considered an Athenian citizen. The next day their military education would begin, and they would have to become soldiers as well.
"I can't wait..."
"It won't be long, Alkamenes. You can wait until tomorrow morning" Themistocles answered sourly.
"I don't think I can wait that long."
"The important part is today."
"For you."
"For everyone. The most important thing is for us to become citizens of Athens. Equals among equals, with the same rights and obligations to the city..."
Equals... It was a word that had come out of Themistocles' mouth thousands of times in all those years they were growing up together.
Alkamenes laughed. He had those words, his friend's obsession, dozens and even hundreds of times before. Themistocles had been repeating them continuously since the time they all learned to read and write, and later, when they were sixteen and wrestled together, naked and oiled, in the same palaestra.
"I know that it's your dream to be elected by the people, to have permission to speak and address the assembly. To cover yourself with glory..." he said, teasingly.
"You're wrong. My dream is simply to serve the city and more importantly, to serve the democracy and the people of Athens" Themistocles murmured irritably and then added in a bitter voice, "If the nobles and the aristocrats like you let me of course, because I don't..."
"Oh no. Don't start that again, please" his friend cut him off impatiently.
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300 The Empire
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[
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"Greece"
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Chapter 16
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For the first thousand yards the whole group ran together like a pack of wolves falling hungrily on their prey. The eighty pounds of bronze armor seemed like a light sack and their feet flew over plants and branches, stones and pits. Besides, the first thousand yards were the easiest. They were still in the cleared valley, on an even and level field.
But after a mile the way became steep and the path wound through a thick forest, climbing the mountain. Fewer than a hundred of the six hundred runners remained in front when the forest gave way to dry, bare stones with sharp edges that could cut a runner's foot from end to end. Now the eighty pounds of armor felt more like a hundred and eighty, the muscles of their shoulders ached from exhaustion and their heads leaned toward their chests from the weight of the bronze helmets.
Lambrias was in front, just as Themistocles had predicted. In full armor, holding the heavy spear in one hand and the iron sword in the other, with his back straight as a statue's, he strode forward confidently and securely. Neither the dry branches that threatened to flay his body nor the sharp rocks that could cut his feet managed to slow him down.
Several yards behind him came Themistocles, gritting his teeth, and with him ran about ten other athletes. To his surprise, when he looked to the side to assess the situation he saw the delicate Aristeides, red from the effort but running with a steady rhythm. Physical strength and endurance were not his strong points; in spite of the palaestrae, his body had not become tough and well-knit. But on that difficult day Aristeides was the living proof that sometimes, as the philosophers say, spirit rules over matter.
In spite of his surprise, Themistocles smiled. For him, Aristeides was also the proof of his own argument that the mind and the will always come before physical strength. At this moment, his permanent opponent in the rhetorical competitions was also a model for his own attempt to overcome Lambrias's physical superiority.
Themistocles turned his gaze to the front again. He saw with dissatisfaction that Lambrias had increased the distance between them while he was looking back. The front runner had already reached the great trench with the steep drop. He stood at the edge for a moment and then, balancing his body, threw himself into the void without hesitation. He tumbled down the steep slope curled up like the wheel of a cart and stopped softly at the bottom of the gorge. He got up and, plunging his sword deep in the earth, pulled his heavy body up. Then he raised his spear and stuck it in, pulling and raising his heavy muscles that twisted like the roots of a hundred year old tree.
Imitating his example, Themistocles curled up and jumped into the void. However, his attempt was not so successful. When he landed on the bottom of the gorge and tried to stand up, he felt pain so intense that he thought his left foot must have been torn off and stayed on the slope behind him. And his left arm was in no better condition. When he stood up and examined himself, he found a deep wound in his ankle. He must have hit a stone or something while he was going down. Clenching his teeth and limping, he hobbled to the beginning of the steep slope on the other side of the gorge and thrust his spear into the ground as Lambrias had done.
But not with the same success. In spite of his best efforts, the tired muscles of his arms could only pull him up slowly. It was almost more than he could do to balance in this new, higher position, and he could not hang on with one arm to thrust the spear in with the other.
"Use your legs" he was astonished to hear Aristeides' advice coming from behind.
"My left leg is useless. I can't move my ankle."
"Your knees... Use your knees... Carve out a place for your knees before you raise the rest of your body."
It took him a long time, but he made it. When he reached the top he turned his body and rested until he felt the sharp pain in his foot recede and the hammering in his breast quiet down. When he got up again, he saw that only three other athletes had made it across the gorge, one of the worst obstacles in the race. Aristeides was one of them, but now he was lying on the ground with his face sweaty and twitching and his chest rising and falling like a boat in a storm. His arms and legs trembled uncontrollably and his nails were scratching the ground.
Unfortunately, Lambrias was nowhere to be seen. With his eyes Themistocles carefully searched the bushy area that stretched out for half a mile in front of him and ended in a thick forest of pine and plane trees, but he could not make out the huge, running figure. Finally, a great distance ahead, he saw Lambrias advancing confidently. With disappointment Themistocles had to admit that, except if some miracle happened and Hermes lent him his winged sandals, the race was lost.
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300 The Empire
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[
"historical fiction",
"Greece"
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Chapter 18
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He sat without moving and watched the water in intense frustration. The large lake was an insuperable obstacle. His mind was paralyzed, he had fallen into a languor in which scenes from his childhood played before his eyes, sights he had seen in the Agora when he was going to his teacher's house and even earlier, in stories and myths he had heard from his father's friends in the courtyard of their house.
Looking at the reflections of the sun on the water, a Babylonian myth came into his mind. It was a story told to him by their Persian slave Sanacheirim before he was forced to change his name to a Greek one and call himself Sikinos. The myth told of the creation of the world and the two great Assyrian gods of water, Apsou and Tiamat, who sent endless rain to the earth in an attempt to kill their children because they were making a lot of noise and wouldn't let them sleep. All of the children of the gods drowned except for Marduk, who managed to survive by clinging to the trunk of a tree that floated on the water. When the rains finally stopped, Marduk found a dry place, stepped on the ground, and was safe and sound.
Themistocles suddenly raised his head and looked at the water that spread out before him, blocking his way. He pushed himself up with his hands and took out his sharp sword. He went back a few feet into the woods and looked around feverishly, with dilated pupils. He chose four small pines with straight, tender trunks, and struck them with his sword just above the ground, near their roots. The green wood gave way quickly under the sword strokes, and the trunks fell to the ground. He cleared off the branches, grabbed them and pulled them to the lake, where he laid them one beside the other.
Then he looked up and down the shore. He saw small plane trees, tall pines and low willows. The willows would work for him. He cut an armful of their longest and most flexible branches, the ones that fell from the top of the tree to the bottom like a woman's hair. Then he went back to the pine trunks, cleaned the leaves off the flexible branches so that they looked like thick cords, and tied the trunks firmly together. When his makeshift raft was finished, he pulled it into the water and climbed onto it, carrying his sword and long spear.
The trunks rocked under his weight and sank about two feet at first, but then came back to the surface and stabilized. Themistocles smiled in triumph. A shout of victory burst from him. He felt he had conquered the water.
Mind against muscle.
Human ingenuity against brute force.
Resourceful Odysseus against fearless Achilles.
That was his strength.
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Chapter 19
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He used the spear to push the boat, sinking the point to the bottom of the lake and poling steadily and firmly. The raft started to move towards the opposite shore. At that slow speed, though, it might take hours to cross the distance of half a mile.
While pushing on the spear with all the strength he had left, he raised his eyes and looked along the path. He saw that Lambrias had reached the last curve in the path and was starting slowly towards the waterfall. If he managed to pass under the water and come out on the other side, everything would be over.
With his eyes following his opponent's progress, he tried to speed up the raft. He sank his spear more quickly and pushed harder. The raft swayed but continued on its course. When Themistocles had reached the middle of the lake, Lambrias had reached the edge of the foaming falls and was preparing to pass through the narrow gap between the cliff and the arc of water.
Themistocles bent his head and concentrated on what he was doing. In his mind he heard the rhythmic beating of the drum that gave the tempo in every warship. Sweat dripped from his face, his legs were going numb and the muscles of his arms were going red. It had to work. He had promised himself.
Victory.
In his mind there was only victory.
Until he heard a screeching cry that echoed in the rocky valley. He stopped poling with his spear and raised his head, wondering. There wasn't a soul on the shore in back of him, nor in front of him, on the far side of the lake.
But the cry came again.
He looked to his right.
And then he saw him.
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2040 Reconnection
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Kris Schnee
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[
"fantasy"
] |
[
"virtual reality",
"Thousand"
] |
Chapter 4
|
Alma sped through her last 'vacation' week in a few days of subjective time. Preparing lesson plans was more important than questing for magic or seeking better housing, so she reluctantly put adventuring aside. Instead she did pretty much what she'd done on Earth: sit in restaurants, reading and writing.
Until the robot piloting appointment. The building for that was linked to the hotel, past a hallway full of lasers and sawblades. Alma stared into the deathtraps and asked a passing dwarf, "Is this normal?"
"Yeah, the commute's a pain," he said. He started marching past them, swinging his hammer to parry the blades.
Alma watched. The hall looked menacing, but really she'd only have to face one or two obstacles at a time. It was artfully designed to be reasonably easy yet make players feel cool solving it. She followed the same path, hopping and dodging, but then a blade she'd mistimed swung down and tore into her.
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2040 Reconnection
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Kris Schnee
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[
"fantasy"
] |
[
"virtual reality",
"Thousand"
] |
Chapter 7
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That night, or Tuesday or whatever the hell time it was outside, Alma slumped against the bar and smacked her empty milkshake glass down. It didn't break. "Another."
Kai was the only real person on duty right now. The dim bar-and-grill had a midnight feel with few customers and with the TVs muted. He backed his long chestnut body out of the sink area and trotted over to Alma. "I'm cutting you off after this one."
"Calories here are make-believe. I am not up for this job."
"It was your first day. It'll get better."
Alma gnawed on an authentically bland peanut. "I used to teach the smart kids. The ones headed to college, ROTC, the good technical schools. These kids are like chimps! Or goldfish; saying that's less likely to get me fired."
Kai worked his alchemy with a blender, pausing to say, "It's that big a gap, that they're like animals to you?"
Alma rested her head on one hand. "That sounds awful, I know. But I'm smart. I don't know what uploading did to my intelligence level, but I think me still brain good. I'm like, here" -- she held her other hand above the bar, then slapped it down -- "and average is here, and these Basic kids are down at your hooves. How do I relate to that?"
"Do you always tell average people you're up there looking down?" he said, standing taller than her.
"Damn it, Kai, you sound like an American. I don't need to apologize for knowing I'm good at something, so long as I don't think that gives me the right to control people. And it's not like I'm better at everything. Like with... cooking. At cooking you're up there and I'm way under you."
Kai was facing away, flicking his tail. "I like that image."
Alma sputtered. "Excuse me?"
He turned and set a banana milkshake in front of her. "Mostly teasing. I..." He scratched one of his long brown ears. "I had a falling out with the human I was made for. We're still friends. Part of our spat was what you're saying. It's tough to talk with people when you're smart and talented and you've been living in a different mental world from them. I and the other Originals were designed for that kind of outreach. All the magic in Talespace too: it's there to give you humans a bridge between what you are, and what you wish you were. So... hating the gap doesn't do any good. You either cross it somehow, or accept that you can't. I don't know which one applies here."
"Between natives and uploaders?" Alma said. "Or smart and dumb? Talespace and Earth?"
"Any of those. You've already started to find a life here and see our problems. I don't want to pull you away from interacting with Earth if that's what you want, but maybe doing new things here will give you ideas for working with your human students."
"Like what?" said Alma, perking her ears.
"There's a castle of skeleton warriors working for the Forces of Evil. Want to go battle the undead with me? You can raid the place to help pay your bar bill, even."
Alma grinned. "That sounds educational."
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2040 Reconnection
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Kris Schnee
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[
"fantasy"
] |
[
"virtual reality",
"Thousand"
] |
Chapter 10
|
Hours later, she wished she could open that portal to the beach and dive through to escape. The students sat in front of her, fish-eyed, expecting nothing in particular. The school was only using her as a babysitter! The administrators hardly even cared what she supposedly taught.
She lectured, "What I'm trying to say is, these pieces called 'atoms' join up. Remember the soda can? The bits of metal are only weakly linked, so when you hit them they fly apart but they grab onto other bits and get hard again."
Dopey giggling from the peanut gallery.
"We've been sitting here too long," Alma said. She deployed her backup plan. "Let's play a game. Everyone take your tablet." She led the class out of the tent to the open field. "Your screen will show you a treasure hunt! Everybody find a treasure and come back, okay?"
She let them run off and get some exercise. Meanwhile she disengaged from her robot and stretched, fluttering her tail. She'd marked imaginary waypoints on the school network that the computers could detect, so that when some kid physically went to certain spots of ground, they could run around to "dig up" a picture and text about some interesting bit of chemistry. These students would never be trusted with any but the simplest lab experiments.
"I got gold!" shouted Stobor.
"No fair; I want gold!" said a girl.
Alma grinned; she'd built rules for trading into her little educational game. She kept an eye and sensors on the group. One boy drifted toward blue tent #1, so Alma followed before he could disrupt the smart kids.
The teacher there was saying, "Doctor Rush was also an early abolitionist. In an era when most folks thought blacks were inferior, he argued that any inferiority was the fault of slavery itself. How might you apply that kind of argument to the modern world?"
The students piped up. "The Caliphate! Yankee schools. How we treat dogs, now that there're smart ones!"
"All interesting comparisons. For Monday I'd like short essays about Rush's theory of degradation through oppression, and what value it might have today. Be ready to argue orally."
Alma's student started running in circles in plain view of the other group, holding his arms out. "I got rubies!"
One of the bright kids said, "I found my topic."
Alma's cheeks burned. She tugged the kid's arm, saying, "Good job. Let's go back."
Another student asked his neighbor, "What about Talespace as oppression? That thing's just a robot now."
Alma coaxed the treasure-hunter away before he could disrupt the other class more. She rounded up everyone else and tried to focus on her lesson, not the pity of the humans who still had long lives ahead on Earth. "Let's start with you," she said to one of her students. "What did you find?"
"Pearls," he said, holding up his tablet with a picture of a necklace and some text.
"Are pearls rocks?" asked Alma.
"Uh-huh!"
"Read it again."
"Uh. They're made by oysters?"
"Very good. Now, does everyone see that symbol on the pearl picture? That means it's treasure made by living things. Who else has a symbol like that?"
"Amber!"
"I got coral," said another kid.
Alma got discussion going about what the treasures had in common, and why people valued them. That morning was her best session so far.
|
2040 Reconnection
|
Kris Schnee
|
[
"fantasy"
] |
[
"virtual reality",
"Thousand"
] |
Chapter 12
|
Alma found Meg packing up a booth at the Newcomer Fair. "Meg, are you an evil harpy?"
The feather-armed lady grinned. "According to my ex-husband! Why?"
"The design on your coins matched some Forces of Evil ones. See, the other night I helped kill Gerard and looted his corpse. That's going to be awkward at our next brunch."
"Yeah, I'm with FoE, and I recruited him. Don't worry about killing him." She poked Alma with one talon. "But watch your back if you go after more important targets."
Alma tried to help her pack up the body designs and clothes she had on display, but Meg waved one hand and the merchandise vanished. Different rules for Earthside players. Alma said, "Do you buy into FoE as a real conspiracy? Gerard sounded like you guys have long-term plans to take over Talespace."
"There are different kinds of evil. I'm just involved because somebody has to play the bad guys, and it's more fun for everyone if the villains aren't all Ludo's dumb puppets."
"But you're Earthside. You won't be here if the group really does something bad to this world."
The harpy scowled. "Don't remind me. Yeah, yeah, I'm not a real person to you."
"What? No! You're just not living here."
Meg looked mollified. "FoE's got ranks. You can't make Overlord or higher without getting your physical body mulched and your brain diced."
"That's some hardcore commitment to a gaming clan." It made sense, then, that the higher ranks might have something truly sinister in mind.
Meg sighed and walked with Alma to a little cafe along the fairground's curving wall. "I almost got in. I had Talespace friends willing to sponsor me if I pulled off some epic villainy. Now I get grief from my FoE friends about not being here yet. Earthside, I've got a real job doing HR consulting, but I'm living on noodles. Saving up for the day when I can say goodbye to that life. The villain stuff is just another job."
Alma hugged her, but Meg wouldn't feel it, and the cafe's food would do nothing for her either. "You shouldn't rush so much that you miss out on what a regular human life has to offer. Are you decently young and healthy, still?"
"Yeah, but I'm gambling with the Reaper by living out here on Earth."
The existence of Talespace was like a whirlpool, pulling people in who didn't really need it yet. Alma said, "It's good to hear you've got a motive for FoE work other than being evil for evil's sake. Once you get in, maybe they'll tell you their secret plan if there is one."
Meg looked around with longing at the wild fairground, in plain sight but out of her true reach. "I mentioned there being different kinds of evil, but that's not the same thing as the silly ranks. I mean, Gerard's a thug that we've positioned where he'll do more good than harm. Some people at all levels buy into the 'take over Talespace' story. But I think the Prince -- our leader -- is in on one big joke with Ludo. Come on. Would Miss Villain-With-Good-Publicity let us cause a serious threat and make Talespace un-fun? You know she's watching anybody with hacking skills, for one thing."
"Maybe." Alma spotted Poppy over at the oak tree shop. "I should talk with one of the other conspiracies for comparison. Hey, Meg?"
"Hmm?"
"Go do something fun. Feel the real sun on your face and the wind in your hair, and the taste of something with chocolate."
The harpy smiled. "Thanks. I could use a reality check."
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2040 Reconnection
|
Kris Schnee
|
[
"fantasy"
] |
[
"virtual reality",
"Thousand"
] |
Chapter 13
|
Meg vanished, leaving Talespace to do Earthside things. Alma stretched, letting her tail flutter, and walked over to greet Poppy. "What do you make of FoE? Meg and Gerard are with them."
Poppy, too, looked done selling for the day. She dumped a box of coins into a bag and hefted a backpack over one shoulder. "Are they? I haven't been in contact since we met. Seems to me there are enough problems here without creating more."
"Need help packing?"
"Thanks, but the whole tree can warp back to Midgard. Got a good enchantment on it."
Alma realized she'd forgotten to pay Meg back with the proceeds from fighting Gerard. Eh; Talespace money didn't mean much to Meg. "Different rules for each club?"
"Not really." Poppy sighed. "One difference between my group and FoE is that our agenda is positive. When I was younger, I spoke out for all kinds of 'social justice' causes, like militant vegetarianism. You name it, I was outraged about why anybody disagreed with it. It was all a mistake, because I was pushing causes, not morals. I hadn't stopped to think about what I really believed in beyond 'do what seems nice'. The evil guys are just the mirror image of that. I blame a guy called Kant for that kind of thinking."
"So is Great Oak a religion?" asked Alma.
Poppy posed with her tail high and one hand on her chest. "Strike at the root," she said as though reciting scripture. "I suppose so, and there are bound to be schisms. The other founders and I are trying to make something that unites people even across other religions or language or nationality. As much as I like my new species, the group needs principles under the silly decorations. You should visit our official territory sometime."
"How do I reach it?"
"It's in Midgard. You can't just warp back with this tree, though; it doesn't carry people. There's a path through the Ivory Tower caverns, or you could learn a teleport spell."
Alma's ears perked. "Ooh, I know one! With almost no power or control, though."
Smiling, Poppy said, "You probably need a focusing item to set a destination, and a potion to boost the spell..."
Alma spent all her coins on cool magic stuff.
Poppy said, "This talk of portals reminds me: are you free on Sunday? We're performing at one of Ludo's 'Fun Zone' shops and could use an extra."
"Sure!" She'd been to a Fun Zone in Texas. Places like that had friendly robots and bad pizza for kids, and VR pods and other immersive entertainment for adults. It'd be interesting to see the place from within Talespace.
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300 The Empire
|
Theo Papas
|
[
"historical fiction",
"Greece"
] |
[] |
Chapter 43
|
Leonidas smiled for a long time. Then he looked away from the Persian. He looked first at the three respected elders of the city council who waited, standing a little farther back, for his decision. Then he turned and looked at his men, standing motionless in the lines of their phalanx like armored statues.
At an almost imperceptible sign from him, the first file moved and its eight men ran towards him.
They came up to the ambassador and grasped him by the arms, while they immobilized his two attendants.
"You cannot touch us. We have asylum. We are official ambassadors and hold the Caduceus" said the Persian without losing any of his arrogance.
One of the Spartans moved quickly and took the wooden rod from his hand.
"Not any more…" said Leonidas, and came towards him.
"You cannot do anything. We are an official delegation. It is great hubris if you hurt us."
"The hubris came from you first. It was a very great impropriety from a guest."
"What hubris?"
"You compared a simple king with the gods. That is hubris to the gods. Especially in the city of Apollo."
"We do not believe in the same gods" explained the Persian. He had lost some of his arrogance in the meantime.
"That was not all."
"I did not say anything else. If you hurt us, the great curse of blasphemy will fall upon your city. You know that."
"There is no greater blasphemy, Persian, than to ask free men to become slaves of their own will."
"There is the emperor and there are his subjects. That is how the world is made."
"Not ours!"
Leonidas said nothing further. He looked around him once more and then walked to the right, to where the altar of the goddess Artemis was located, and the great well of water with which they cleaned it after sacrifices.
Behind him followed his men, dragging the Persian by the arms. Sweat from the burning summer heat melted the paint on his eyes and his light, many-colored garments were growing heavy with sweat. Only his jewelry remained as bright as ever, reflecting the golden light of the sun.
"Shall we swear an oath to the gods?" asked the Persian ambassador with a weak smile, when they let him go behind the sacred altar.
"Why do you not ask them yourself? In a little while you will see them."
"How…"
"You asked for earth and water, Persian" the Spartan told him severely, looking at the vase and the amphora that the messenger was still holding in his hands.
"Yes…"
"Go and get some yourself, then!" shouted Leonidas. "Because this…" He screamed, and the muscles of his face tightened, revealing all of his pent-up rage "… this is Sparta!"
The next second his terrific arms shot out.
The breast of the Persian received a terrible blow and fell backwards.
His blood-curdling cry ended in a splash as he fell to the bottom of the well.
He had gotten the earth and water he asked for.
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300 The Empire
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Theo Papas
|
[
"historical fiction",
"Greece"
] |
[] |
Come and Take Them
|
Besides the Thessalians, Thebes and the city of Argos that sided with the Persians out of long-standing enmity with Sparta, all the other Greek cities agreed to participate in the war effort. They sent soldiers and ships, and they swore to the gods to hold to their decision with all their might. The ships would gather as soon as possible in the dockyards of Athens, Salamis and Aegina, while the phalanxes of the Greek army would be drawn up in two defensive lines. The first would hold the pass at Thermopylae, a hundred and twenty miles north of Athens, and the second would hold Isthmos, forty miles to the south of Athens.
One month after representatives of the Greek cities had gathered and the alliance had been formed, the Hercules company, the Spartan royal guard, bid farewell to its city. It was the ceremony that Sparta always organized for its soldiers leaving for war. First there were sacrifices to the gods, led by the archpriest who also commanded the expeditionary force, King Leonidas himself. Immediately after that, all the city's inhabitants lined up on the road leading to the city's exit. Men, women, children, even babies hanging at their mother's breasts stood by the sides of the road, wearing their black garments, to say goodbye to the soldiers, wish them a triumphant victory or honorable death, and listen to them proudly chant their battle hymn as they marched off to war.
The supplies, pack animals and slaves that would accompany the Spartan phalanx had already left days previously to set up camp and makeshift kitchens. The soldiers would follow accompanied only by their personal attendants, who carried their personal belongings and their weapons. Fourteen hours quick march every day. One meal. Six hours of sleep. Three weeks to get to the field of battle, three hundred miles north of Sparta.
Leonidas stood before his soldiers, raised his cup with the last of the wine, poured half of it on the ground as an offering to the gods, and drank the rest. He strode slowly towards the point where his wife, Gorgo, was waiting for him together with their children, and went first to his oldest son. He bent, caressed his head, and asked him to continue their line with dignity and honor.
"Since the time Sparta was founded our wives, our mothers and our sisters have never faced an enemy sword. You must continue this tradition, my son. That is the inheritance I leave to you" he said calmly and in a steady voice.
Then he turned, opened his arms, scarred from dozens of battles, and tightly clasped his wife, Gorgo in them. He felt the wild beating of her heart against his chest, smelled the aroma of her unbraided hair, and tenderly kissed her dry cheek.
"I only have one wish and I want you to remember it and put it into practice. Choose a good husband…" he urged her, simply, and fixed his gaze on her large black eyes for a little while—for a last moment, something to remember from their happy life together.
Beside him, behind him, the Spartan soldiers were saying goodbye to their wives and sons who would carry on their lines if they had the great honor of falling in battle defending their country—which, as everyone knew, was very likely to happen on this campaign. No tears were shed, there was no begging or regrets. The country was more important than anything else. And military honor was the greatest good. Those were their values.
A little while later the soldiers returned to their lines. They took up their weapons and gave the order to their attendants to raise the rest of their gear from the ground. The time had come. The pipes sounded piercingly three times and then started up their familiar rhythm. The men began to sing loudly, led by Leonidas, and marched in formation toward the city's exit. Half an hour later, the golden wheatfields of the plain swallowed up their worn and faded red cloaks. Before they left, Leonidas had ordered that the men should not be given new cloaks so as not to unnecessarily burden the treasury. After all, most of them would not need a cloak at all after the battle. In a tomb there is no difference between an old cloak and a new one.
After their departure the sound of their battle hymn faded quickly together with their image. Their rhythmic stride on the dry ground was soon lost. But the military body that left for Thermopylae was not the total of nine thousand first and second reserve soldiers that Sparta had.
It was not the four and a half thousand first line soldiers that were usually sent on campaigns.
It was not even the one thousand five hundred select warriors.
It was only three hundred.
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300 The Empire
|
Theo Papas
|
[
"historical fiction",
"Greece"
] |
[] |
Chapter 46
|
A chorus of shouts came to their ears. Almost the whole Greek camp had climbed up on the wall or else the slopes of the mountain and was looking to the north, towards the depths of the plain. A large plume of dust rose from the low hills at its end. Just at the edge of sight, black dots moved in lines like great, supernatural snakes. It was the Persian vanguard that had reached Thermopylae.
"Tell the allies" Leonidas said to Cimonas. "We have contact with the enemy. Nothing will happen today, and maybe not tomorrow either. A great army needs days to encamp and study the field of battle."
"Then I can stay with you."
"No. A great army also needs its fleet. It depends on it for food and supplies. You must leave immediately and inform Themistocles. By tomorrow at the latest, their fleet will be in these waters. Tell him to prepare and wait for him. And…" he stopped for a moment, looking at the horizon "tell him that Leonidas will do what he promised..."
By evening the empty plain was flooded with men. The shouts of the Greeks had ceased. They looked in awe at the unbelievable number of Persians pouring in like a rushing river. The dust of their footsteps on the dry ground had filled the air not only over the land but over the sea as well. Their many-colored uniforms and their curious weapons were surprising. Even more surprising were the strange animals the warriors brought with them, animals that most Greeks had never seen before and that some had never heard of. Some with humps like the actors in tragedies in the Athenian theaters, and others the size of five horses with legs as thick as the columns of a temple.
"Light fires."
"It is early for dinner."
"Not for dinner, Dienekes. Light fires everywhere. Behind the wall, on the coast, on the mountainside, on the hills to the south, light them as far as the eye can see. Fires that can be seen from the plain and the enemy camp, as if the place is full of our soldiers. And tell the attendants to polish the shields until they can see the hairs of their heads in them. There is no sight so fearsome as a line of shields flashing in the sun."
Dienekes understood. He pulled back behind the wall and went to the attendants' camp. He gathered them together, drew a rough map on the ground, and told them where to light the fires. He sent them off with pyrite in their hands and the order to throw green wood on the fire so that the smoke would be seen from far away during the day as well as at night.
Hours later, as the sun set behind Mount Kallidromo, the fires of the Greeks looked like dozens of lighted arrows shot into the ground by the god Hephaestus.
"They must believe that there are many thousands of us. When fear nestles in the heart, then the sword does not nestle so firmly in the hand" explained Leonidas, looking at his companions.
"But they are like ants, uncountable. Not even Zeus himself on Olympus could count them. Even if fear nestles in their hearts, they'd still stretch out endlessly" said Dimophilos, the commander of the seven hundred men from Thespies. "No matter how we fight, no matter how many we kill, they will defeat us in the end."
"They can defeat us, yes. But they cannot defeat nature."
"I don't understand you, Leonidas."
"They have to move continually. Otherwise they are in danger of falling sick, and epidemics can spread very quickly if so many thousand men stay so close to each other in one place for days. They must also find fresh food and clean water. We have destroyed all the plain's resources and poisoned the rivers and the wells. If their transports do not come soon with their supplies, they won't last many days in one place. That is why our own fleet is stationed at the straits of Artemisio, to prevent theirs from getting here. If Themistocles manages it, we won't have to defeat them ourselves. Hunger will defeat them. All we have to do is to keep them here for two weeks."
"Two weeks?" asked Dimophilos, stunned. "Two weeks is a long time to hold off that many thousand enemies.
"I have the advantage."
"What advantage? With three hundred men?"
"Yes," Leonidas answered calmly.
Dimophilos looked at him in amazement. Of course he had heard that Spartans were fearless in battle, but he had never yet heard that they were unhinged.
"The pass is thirty yards wide from the sea to the mountain cliffs at its narrowest point, which is right before our wall. So they cannot put more than thirty men on the front line of their phalanxes. We can wait for them before the wall, where the pass widens a little, lining up sixty men in our front line. So we have an advantage of two to one on the field of battle, no matter what reserves the Persians are holding in the rear…"
Dimophilos' mouth fell open, listening to Leonidas' reasoning. He could not think of any questions or comments.
He was convinced.
And to be as fearless as that, you need to be a little unhinged.
The Spartans were both.
|
300 The Empire
|
Theo Papas
|
[
"historical fiction",
"Greece"
] |
[] |
Chapter 47
|
Then followed four days of waiting, with tentative moves by the Persian infantry and harassment from mounted archers who galloped up to the wall, shot a few arrows and then returned to their camp. The Spartans did not shoot back. They couldn't be bothered. Guerilla warfare was not warfare for them. They had not learned to fight while hiding like women.
But underneath their bronze armor, their hearts began to swell with impatience. Waiting and doing nothing are perhaps the most difficult work of all for a man who has learned to throw himself passionately into the fire of battle from the first moment.
Leonidas had given strict orders that all everyday activities should continue as if nothing unusual was happening. His men got up from their spread-out cloaks in the morning, arranged their long hair, ate their best meal of the day, breakfast, exercised their bodies as usual, carried out their military exercises and sharpened their swords and spears.
"Who sharpens his sword sharpens his courage" said Leonidas to his subordinates. He insisted on his order being followed, even though it looked like the points might be ground down to nothing under the sharpening.
"Messengers are coming!" the watchman from the advance guard on the left, higher side of the wall, had come running and the words came in quick bursts from his panting chest. "They are coming to the wall holding the Caduceus. They might be here already. But…"
"But what?" asked Leonidas, wondering at the scout's sudden pause and his awkward glance.
"They are headed by…" the scout swallowed. "by a woman…"
"Are you sure?" asked Dienekes, wondering himself.
"Yes. But she is not wearing women's clothes. She is wearing a man's armor."
"Then how do you know it's a woman?" asked Leonidas.
The scout swallowed. It had been many days since he had been with a woman. His body reacted in the normal way of a man who sees a beautiful woman. But there was no way he could admit something like that to his king. "It is a woman…" he repeated simply.
Leonidas saw his red face and understood. He shrugged his shoulders indifferently. "All right. So what?"
"A woman in war?" asked the scout, aghast. "The word manliness comes from the word man."
"To go to war and fight you need courage, everyone knows that. But the only fear you need to face is the fear of dying or being wounded. Wounds and pain in the flesh. That is, nothing. But the women who send their men and their children to war while they themselves remain behind have to face wounds and pain in the heart. And that takes much more courage and manliness" answered Leonidas, and got up slowly.
"There is something else…" murmured the scout. "Something even stranger."
"What?"
"The woman is not wearing Persian armor."
"Is she naked? Even better…" joked Dienekes. "Just what we need to raise our men's morale…"
"She is wearing Greek armor and she speaks Greek."
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300 The Empire
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Theo Papas
|
[
"historical fiction",
"Greece"
] |
[] |
Chapter 48
|
When he heard those words Leonidas clenched his fists to break his rage, as he had been taught to do in his training ever since he was a small child. For a Spartan, there was no failing worse than treachery.
Without saying another word, he strode firmly to the wall, the gaze of all his men fixed on him. He climbed the rough stones like a nimble boy and stood on top of them with legs shoulder width apart, arms crossed on his chest and eyes forward.
Now he could see her too. The woman was wearing a Greek helmet and not the conical tiara, the hat worn by representatives of the Persian king. She was unarmed and her arms hung relaxed at the sides of her breastplate. A few steps behind her stood her entourage. It consisted of two men in many-colored trousers and caftans that hung to the knee. One held up the carved wooden Caduceus, the symbol of messengers, and the other held a large roll of papyrus.
"I am not thirsty…" the woman said suddenly, breaking the long silence.
"What does that mean?" asked Leonidas, surprised by her words.
"I heard that you threw the last person Xerxes sent into a well. Well, I am telling you that I am not thirsty."
Leonidas smiled in spite of himself. "I would never throw a woman into a well. Especially not one dressed in the Greek manner. Who are you and what do you want?"
"My name is Artemisia and I am the queen of Halicarnassus. I am here with my soldiers and five warships…"
"Thank you, but we do not need help" the Spartan interrupted her. "There are enough of us."
It was Artemisia's turn to smile. "I serve the Great King in the navy, but I also take part in his council of war. I am here today by his order."
"For what reason?"
"To offer peace to the Spartans in his name" she answered him solemnly, before adopting a more familiar tone. "I speak our common language and believe in the same gods. You can trust me, Leonidas."
"A common language and the same gods do not matter when the mind thinks differently. Tell me what you want, you are keeping me away from my soldiers."
"Xerxes informs you that he will respect your city and your law. We know that for you Spartans, the law is above everything."
"If Xerxes respects our law, he has already trampled on it. Because our law does not allow barbarians to respect it."
"He will not destroy Sparta, Leonidas, I know that well" she insisted. "You will have your own kingdom and…"
"A kingdom like yours? That will have to campaign and make war on his orders, and not according to the law and the citizens?"
"You will be masters of your own land" continued Artemisia, undaunted by his insulting interruption. "The Great King wants only an oath of obedience and his taxes from you. Nothing else. Think about it, Leonidas. Think about his proposal. You have nothing to lose except a few words and a little money."
"We will lose something more important than that. We will lose our freedom. By giving an oath of obedience, we will trample on our citizens' most important right."
"If you do not accept you will all die. What will your famous freedom mean after your death?"
"And choosing when and how you will die is also freedom" Leonidas answered drily. "Besides, there is something more terrible than death…"
"What?" Artemisia wondered honestly. "Death wipes out everything."
"Dishonor. That is not wiped out even by death."
"You will not be dishonored. Xerxes undertakes" she said, pointing to the man with the papyrus standing behind her "not to dishonor your women and not to desecrate your temples. If you abandon your position and the Athenians now, you will leave and return to your country safely."
"This is our country too. Whether or not you have forgotten it" he commented scathingly. "But even what you are saying is dishonor, because there is no greater dishonor than to become a slave without giving battle."
"You will not become slaves. It is enough to…"
"Enough to what?"
"Enough to surrender your arms."
Leonidas remained silent for a little while. Then he drew his short sword from its sheath and held it high, the blade shining in the sun.
"Come and take them!" he told her decisively. "Let him come and take them himself!"
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300 The Empire
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Theo Papas
|
[
"historical fiction",
"Greece"
] |
[] |
The Gates of Fire
|
The waiting was over. Early in the morning, before dawn, the Three Hundred and their allies from Thespies got up from the ground, washed their bodies, arranged their hair, polished their shields and helmets with sand, rubbed them with oil, put on their clean tunics, offered libations to the gods and their ancestors, and put on their armor.
They formed into groups according to the scheme they had practiced hundreds of times in their gymnasia, and came out in front of the wall.
They drew up their phalanx a hundred yards in front of it, at the narrowest point of the pass, on ground that had been carefully cleaned in the previous days for a space of five hundred yards, in the area where they had set the traps for the cavalry. Thirty men on the first line, and ten lines after that. A perfect and compact rectangle of leather, wood and bronze.
They rested their shields upright on the ground, supporting them against their greaves, thrust their spears into the ground and waited with their helmets at their foreheads. A light wind was blowing from the north, the air was clear and at that precise moment the sun rose in the east.
Immediately Alexander, Leonidas' second subordinate, came out of his position and checked the phalanx's arrangement and direction. Then he looked carefully at the sun and sent his attendant forward. With successive orders, he commanded the men to turn slightly to the right with their polished shields and then tilt them back until they reflected the sun and the attendant was completely bathed in light, shining like someone riding the chariot of the god Apollo.
Then he raised his head and looked towards the Persian camp, far away on the plain. Even the large tents of Xerxes and his generals, that had been set up at the rear of the camp, were lighted up by the beam of light coming from all the shields together, reflecting and concentrating the rays of the sun.
Shouts and cries suddenly came from the sleeping Persian camp. The earth shuddered like a mother giving birth from thousands of running feet. Exclamations and words of surprise were heard in dozens of languages unknown to the Greeks. But they did not need to know the words. The wonder and surprise were clear from the tone of their cries. The first goal before battle, the most essential, had been achieved. The fanatical and fatalistic men of the east would now believe that a great god, the god of the sun, was on the side of the Greeks. And that was an incomparable psychological advantage.
"There is nothing more impressive than the flashing of polished weapons…" murmured Leonidas and raised his spear high, commanding the phalanx to close and to take up battle position.
The shields were raised suddenly without changing their angle, then passed to the left arms and locked together, sealing the men's bodies behind a bronze wall. The spears were picked up from the ground and, in one movement, were raised over the shoulders and the shields. The helmets came down from the foreheads, closing he faces in a mask of hard metal.
Leonidas, standing on the place of honor to the right of the phalanx of his men, suddenly lowered his sword.
The pipes behind the warriors began to play in the strong rhythm of the Spartan martial hymn.
The men of the first line took a step forward, stamping their feet.
And then another.
And another.
Leonidas stretched out his spear to direct them.
A chant shook the air as the phalanx prepared to march toward the enemy:
Forward, brave Spartan children...
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300 The Empire
|
Theo Papas
|
[
"historical fiction",
"Greece"
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Chapter 26
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Shall we call our own Mages, great king?"
"No. It is not necessary..."
The Persian Mages of the royal palace were not needed to explain anything. The meaning of the vision and the oracle's prophecy were clear for all to see. Everyone knew that the olive is a tree that does not grow in Persia but grows in abundance in Greece. And everyone also knew that Asia and Europe are divided by a sea. It is called the Aegean Sea at its broadest point and the Hellespont at its narrowest. It was the sea he must cross.
"Unite two lands that are divided by a sea..." repeated Xerxes ecstatically, almost seeing the vision before his dazzled eyes. "Could there be anything clearer than that, Artabanus?" he asked, looking behind him.
"No, son of Darius... the words of the gods are clear... You must crown your head with the olive, the sacred tree of the Greek goddess and the city that bears her name, Athens."
"In a very little while Athens will not exist anymore. Nor will the temple of the goddess on the rock of the Acropolis. In its place I will build a temple to the god of the creation of the world, Ahura Mazda. And next to that, the Persian palace of the satrapy."
"Greece is a small and poor country."
"So what?"
"There is not enough wealth there to support a satrapy."
"Greece is only the beginning. Behind it, in the direction of the setting sun, there are other, strong and rich countries. I have heard of them from the Phoenicians, who sail their merchant ships to all the seas. Syracuse, Italy, Europe. Our empire will conquer the whole world. Just as Mardonius said, from the moment the sun appears until the moment it disappears, it will shine its light only on the territories of our empire. Believe me, Artabanus. The cities of Greece will only be the beginning. The countries of Europe will follow immediately after" Xerxes cried, beside himself with joy. Then he suddenly grew serious and gloomy. Rage distorted his face. His gaze darkened. "But before that I must keep the promise I gave to my father. To wipe Athens off the face of the earth. To conquer it and punish its inhabitants without mercy for the defeat and the insult we endured at Marathon.
"And so are we ready, son of Darius?"
"We have the wish of our forefathers. We have the omens of the gods. And we have the best and most powerful army the world has ever known" said Xerxes and rose. "What else do we need?"
That same evening ambassadors were sent to the great palaces. In a grandiose ceremony, they were each given a silver vase and a small amphora. The vase for earth and the amphora for water. The ambassadors would ask the Greek cities, the separate little states that functioned all over Greece, to give the messengers of Xerxes "earth and water", a proof of submission and obedience to the Great King.
The next day, besides the ambassadors who left for the Greek cities, hundreds of royal messengers scattered to every corner of the vast empire, riding swift horses and taking the three great imperial roads. The eastern road that led to India, the southern road that led to Egypt, and the western road that led to Sardis.
They carried the order of the King of Kings to all the nations of Asia and the peoples he commanded. To gather an army and a fleet the equal of which the world had never before seen.
The die was cast.
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Chapter 30
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Let me give you some advice, cousin…"
The voice that was heard in the royal hall of symposia with its colorful stones and gilded fountain, was not hoarse or heavy. It was not an old man's voice, like the voice of Sindos. It was as soft as light fabric fluttering in the breeze, tinkling and musical like the water of the fountain. It was serious and commanding, but at the same time charming and playful. It sounded like the delicate and harmonious voice of a singer, but also like an order from a person who is accustomed to command, whose words have weight. It was the voice of a despotic man trapped in the splendid body of a woman.
Her jet-black hair fell to her waist like a silky night veil, in complete contrast to her eyes which were the color of emeralds on a cloudy day. Her body was wrapped in a light blue chiton decorated with golden embroidery and fastened at the shoulders with carved clasps. A short white cloak fell to the backs of her thighs. In spite of her expensive women's garments, her bare arms and legs were muscular and at every move the muscles showed as carved lines on her dark skin, tightened from training and burned by the sun.
"Oh… Are you here, my dear?" murmured Sindos, and he got up from the couch with the cup of wine in his hand. "Didn't we agree that you were going to stay in the hunting lodge until the moon was gone?"
"I didn't want to miss the chance."
"Your chance to hunt foxes is now, when there is a full moon. When it's gone you won't be able to make out your own shadow in the forest."
"I'm interested in another fox right now. One that doesn't live in the forest, but on the sea. As you said yourself, whoever dominates the sea, dominates the world" the woman answered. She embraced the old man and stood before the low table, looking at Themistocles. "Isn't that so, cousin?"
Themistocles got up from the couch and came to stand before her, his limbs numb and his gaze fixed on the imperious beauty he saw. He stared at the woman in front of him, who reminded him of the legendary amazons, the mythical warriors of Thrace. He was stunned by this woman who had called him cousin. Her high cheekbones and her full lips, which naturally turned down at the corners, reminded him of his mother, Euterpe.
Under her intense gray-green eyes, Themistocles felt like the phoenix, the bird that is reborn and flies swiftly, tearing the air. She smiled at his confusion, which was impossible to hide. Her curved lips rose and two dimples appeared on her cheeks. She came towards him and kissed him, touching him softly with her moist lips, and all of Themistocles senses were sweetly sharpened as if he had drunk a whole cup of the nectar of the gods in one gulp.
"I am Artemisia, daughter of Lygdamis and niece of your mother. Welcome to Halicarnassus, cousin."
"You haven't given me your advice…" murmured Themistocles as soon as he found his mind and his voice again.
"I know why you have come. It didn't take much guessing to understand. My advice is to visit Miletus, it's only six days journey from here. Fifteen years have passed since their rebellion against the Persians, and the ruins are still smoking. That will be your fate if you raise your head and oppose the will of Xerxes" she told him calmly. The dimples from her charming smile were still showing in her painted cheeks. "The Persian lion will eat you in one bite, cousin…"
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Chapter 32
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He looked at the stars and thought about his life. Themistocles considered himself a lucky person, blessed by the gods. He hadn't been born an aristocrat, nor was he descended from noblemen, but he had lacked for nothing all his life. His father was a knowledgeable man, shrewd and circumspect. Although he came from a poor family who worked the earth, his mind and his character pushed him to become a trader, to work the sea roads and acquire a considerable fortune.
That fortune got the young Themistocles an education from the great teachers and philosophers of Athens. It got him the opportunity to build up his body and his will in the gymnasium of Hercules. It helped him become a successful trader himself and gave him a comfortable life. All of this later brought him the political power he desired. The power to take part in the city's public life, to influence people for its good and, finally, to be elected to one of the most distinguished positions in the democracy of Athens, the position of general. He had lived free under the gods, as all men should. Frugally and humbly, but with dignity and pride. With the power to decide their own fate and that of their city by themselves.
Looking at the black sky sprinkled with bright points and listening to the light rustling of the waves of his beloved sea, he felt his anger slowly fade and disappear, as a wave is absorbed on a soft, sandy shore.
The last thing to fade was Artemisia's words: you are stupid. That was what bothered him most out of all her pretentious boasting about the achievements of the Persian empire, its boundless wealth and its unbelievable power.
"Am I stupid?" he wondered out loud, looking at the star-embroidered heavens. "Am I stupid, Athena, goddess of wisdom? Am I?"
He didn't have time to decide on an answer. A knock on the door interrupted his reflections and distracted him.
It's Sikinos, he thought. Sikinos coming to ask when we are leaving tomorrow.
The caravan for Sardis, the Persian capital of Asia Minor, would start the next day from the market of Halicarnassus, before the sun climbed over the horizon. He had arranged that they would leave with it.
But when he pulled the latch and opened the wooden door, he did not see Sikinos before him. He saw Iasmi waiting on the doorstep. She was wearing a thin linen chiton that showed the rich curves of her body, her face was made up with red cinnabar and her body scented with heavy myrrh.
Themistocles hesitated for a moment. It had been months since he had been with a woman. There were evenings when he longed to embrace and taste a perfumed female body. But tonight was not such a night. The conversation earlier at dinner had removed the erotic desire from his mind and brought gloomy thoughts instead.
"No… No, Iasmi… Some other time, perhaps…" he told her softly, trying not to offend her.
"You cannot refuse."
Themistocles laughed. He had heard of the famous voluptuousness of the women of the east, who had inherited something from the unbridled hedonism of the women of Babylonia and something from the intense sensuality of the priestesses of Cybele, creating an explosive mixture of female lust.
"But…"
He was not allowed to continue his objections. Iasmi's hand covered his mouth and cut off his refusal. Then it left his face and went farther down.
"You must follow me" she said, taking him by the hand.
"I don't have the desire tonight. You are very beautiful and as attractive as Aphrodite. I am sure that no man with even one eye in his head could resist you but just tonight I…"
Iasmi smiled broadly and cut his verbosity short. "Are you Athenians always such chatterers?"
Themistocles laughed in spite of himself. "Just me. Well… And a few others... Anyway, we live in a democracy… But… Honestly, tonight…"
"It's not about me. I have orders to lead you somewhere" she told him, and pulled him by the hand.
They crossed the great hall with the Greek statues, climbed one more stair, passed a gallery decorated with colorful stones and lighted with dim lamps, came to another hall painted with forms of Aphrodite and Artemis, and came to its end, before a double door of aromatic cedar wood.
"Here…" said Iasmi, and softly raised the iron latch.
The door swung halfway open without a sound. The entrance to a half-dark room showed in the opening. Shadows flickered on the wall like moving paintings. A strong scent of liquid musk and burnt amber reached out to him from inside.
"Who is here, Iasmi?" he asked, his heart thumping in his chest.
The answer was not long in coming.
But it did not come from Iasmi.
"Come inside, stupid Athenian…"
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Chapter 33
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The shapely figure stood upright next to two large couches. Lower down, on a wooden table decorated with ivory and terracotta, there were figs, walnuts, honey and sweet grapes, and a delicate amphora full of wine from Samos with two silver cups.
Farther back, the doors to the balcony stood wide open. The light veils hanging from the roof fluttered in the evening breeze coming from the sea, bringing a pleasant coolness and the familiar smell of the sea and filling Themistocles with well-being and euphoria.
Artemisia was wearing a full length caftan the color of sand, fastened with a golden clasp on one shoulder and leaving the other bare, while on the side it was tied only with fine cords. It was made of a soft, airy fabric that wrapped her body like a glove.
Themistocles swallowed noiselessly, dumbfounded by the beauty he saw before him. Artemisia's face had lost the severity it had at dinner. She had rubbed it with aromatic oil and it shone in the light of the lamp. Her abundant hair was piled on the top of her head and caught with an ivory hairpin, showing a neck like a swan's. Her lips, painted with red henna and aromatic cream, were provocatively half open, showing two rows of straight, white teeth.
"Do you not wish to sit, cousin?"
"Ah…"
"Or are you used to standing up, like on the rostrum of your famous assembly where you like to talk and orate by the hour?"
"We talk about the city's business. So many thousands of citizens need time to be heard, to judge and make decisions."
"Wasted time. That explains why Athens is just a village compared to our cities."
"Is that why you called me?"
Artemisia smiled. She bent down, took the amphora and filled the two silver cups with wine. "Will you not come next to me?" she asked him, offering the cup. "It is sweet wine from Samos. The kind you like…"
"How do you know that?"
"In the east, people have big mouths" she said, and smiled. "Especially the Persians, big and honest. Even if they are servants, the great god of creation, their one and only god, forbids them to tell lies. It is the greatest sin. When the time comes for them to cross the bridge of the Great Judge of souls, such a sin could send them to eternal damnation. That is why the Persians never send other Persians as spies…" she finished, meaningfully.
"Sikinos told you?"
"Yes, he told me… About everything, even the personal things. Especially the personal things. And as I told you before, Persians believe honesty to be a great virtue…" Artemisia explained, and her lips curved in a cunning smile.
They sat on the couches next to each other, in the way Greeks usually sat at symposia. With one arm supporting their reclining bodies turned towards the low table, and the other serving the needs of the stomach and throat.
"I am sorry about the silly things I said earlier. It was rude, unbecoming in a hostess. But you annoyed me, cousin."
"I only told you my opinion. It is what I believe."
"It is mistaken, nevertheless" Artemisia answered, smiling. "Think about what I said and you will see I am right."
"You won't convince me with a little wine" Themistocles replied with a smile, and took a large swallow of the excellent, sweet, amber wine.
"I know you have enough money, cousin. I know you are good at your work. My uncle told me about you. And your mother sends us news of your family every now and then, when she can find a merchant ship to take it. And I know that you're as stubborn as a mule and as wise as a fox. You know how to hold the helm steady, as I do. Also, we are relatives. The blood that flows in your veins from your mother's side has governed Halicarnassus for many years."
"Where are you going with this, cousin?"
"I am an only daughter. My father Lygdamis, king of the city…"
"And slave of the Persian emperor" Themistocles interrupted her ironically.
"No matter what you say, you won't spoil my mood" smiled Artemisia. Then she explained a little more seriously "Not a slave. You mean tributary. It's not the same. We pay some taxes to the emperor, we apply his laws and carry out his wishes, but in return we receive continuing peace and protection. Our trade has increased, our wealth has multiplied. You are a merchant too. Think about what I am saying…"
"You are an only daughter, you say," Themistocles stopped her flow of words. "So?"
"If I were a man I would already be king."
"And?"
"The nobles and the officers will not accept a woman on the throne. That means that the city is officially ungoverned."
"I know that. But your uncle is acting as governor."
"For now," she said, and looked him straight in the eyes. "I must marry for Halicarnassus to have a king."
"I wish that for you."
"You can do something better than wish."
"Find you an Athenian?" he asked ironically.
"Yes."
"Who?" he wondered.
"You…"
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Chapter 34
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Themistocles felt as if one of Zeus's thunderbolts had fallen next to him. He forgot all of his witty replies. His eyes started out of their sockets, looking at Artemisia.
"What kind of game is this?" he asked, stunned.
"It's not a game. Our house has governed the city for three generations. I do not wish to put some stranger on the throne now. And you are not a stranger. You were born and live in Athens, but your mother is my father's sister. In your veins flows the same blood as flows through mine."
"Blood means nothing."
"Blood means everything, cousin. With one word, you can become king" she urged. "When I learned you were coming I sent my men to the harbor, where there are some Athenian merchants. They asked about you and the news was excellent. They spoke highly of Themistocles, son of Neocles, from Athens. And so I weighed all things in my mind, and decided. All that is needed now is for you to decide as well. As I told you before, it is simple, and the throne of Halicarnassus will be yours."
"I don't like thrones."
"Don't start talking nonsense again. Everyone likes thrones. Who would refuse to be king?"
"Tributary king" he corrected her. "But it's not just that. I was born and raised in a democracy. I like the assembly, as you said before. I like talking and chatting with my fellow citizens about city matters. I like it that decisions are not just the wish of one person, but the will of many. But more than that, I like it that a simple merchant like me, without aristocratic descent from one of the official tribes of Athens, can be elected general and hold one of the most powerful city offices simply on account of his worth as a person and the power of his words.
Artemisia rose. Slowly, ostentatiously. She stood before him. Her face did not show anger, but solemnity and self-confidence. She raised her hands, undid the clasp at her shoulder, and let the chiton slip from her body with a light rustling sound. Even in that relaxed, voluptuous position the muscles on her shoulders, her arms, her belly and her thighs stood out, reminding Themistocles of the Spartan women who trained next to the men in the palaestras from a young age. But the resemblance stopped there. She also had femininity that the goddess Aphrodite might have envied: full breasts and rounded, vigorous buttocks. Her whole body had been carefully denuded of hair and it shone with aromatic oil in the flickering light of the lamps.
"Perhaps you do not like me?"
It was a rhetorical question. There was no answer. The stunned Themistocles stood still and sweated, and his face showed amazement at the beauty he saw.
"I am offering you a rich throne and a young body like the bodies of Aphrodite and Artemis put together. Why do you not want them?"
"Because I have learned to live free. And I think that is the greater good."
"Free…" Artemisia chewed on the word. "So I am a slave?"
"You are a tributary."
"It is a fair return for the great goods the Persians bring. Marry me and you will enjoy them with me."
"On my knees…" was all Themistocles would say. Not so much because he couldn't think of anything else to say, because his volubility and his rhetorical ability were well known. But speech was cut off by the sensuous body and the sculpted face before him. "I would enjoy it, but I would be on my knees…" he repeated slowly.
"That's no reason. Everyone kneels at some moment, for some reason. You are a politician, you should know that. Even you kneel before the gods at their altars."
"But not before humans. I prefer to die standing up than to live on my knees."
"What an unrealistic view… Almost foolish…" she said, but now her voice was honey-sweet. "Why would you prefer that?"
"Because power is not held by the one who kneels, but by the one who always stands upright."
"Are you sure?" she asked in a sultry voice, and came even closer.
"What are you doing?"
"I'm convincing you of the opposite. I am using that persuasion you admire so much."
Without saying any more, she bent her carven legs and knelt before his couch. She ran the ends of her fingers over his broad chest and tight stomach. Then she laid her whole palm on his body and caressed him farther down. She took his erect penis in her right hand and rubbed it, covered it with oil from her hand, then opened her lips and took all of it in her mouth, stroking the naked tip with her tongue.
This special love play with the lips and the mouth was a practice of the women of the island of Lesbos. The women of Athens did not do it. Themistocles had heard about it but had never experienced it until then. It made his head pound and his body spasm with pleasure.
A little later, when his head was empty of kings, armies and campaigns and his penis was competing with the anvil of Hephaestus for hardness, Artemisia took him by the hand and led him to the great bed, made of oak and sandalwood, which was already made up and waiting for them.
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Chapter 36
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Days later, on the way back from Sardis, Themistocles was surprised to find that instead of thinking about the terrifying mass of the army he had seen, he kept thinking about Artemisia.
Her moist eyes as she writhed in pleasure and her moist body that he pierced like the hard bronze ram of a warship. Her soft, full lips and her playful tongue that wrapped his hard penis and played with it like a hetaera with a flute. Her smooth skin that shuddered under his heavy body and her heavy breasts that pulsed vigorously when she rode him like a wild stallion, howling with pleasure. But also the striated muscles of her trained body, hard as the marble of columns and sculpted like the statues of temples.
Since that night, every evening before he flung himself on the straw mat he carried with him and surrendered to the embrace of sleep, he had prayed to his beloved goddess of wisdom, begging her to visit him with some dream and give him her guidance.
"Most wise Athena, goddess of wisdom, deliver me… Take the thought of Artemisia from my mind or help me to decide otherwise and make her my wife if that is right…" he murmured on the last evening before boarding ship to return to Athens.
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Chapter 39
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When Themistocles and Cimonas opened their eyes, it was still completely dark even though it was summer and the nights were short. Trumpets were sounding from one end of Sparta to another, announcing the new day and summoning the people to rise. In Athens people got out of bed before sunrise too, although not for the same reasons and not while it was still completely dark. The Spartans were different from everyone else in Greece in this habit too. Winter or summer, they ate early and went to bed early, getting up at first cockcrow so that the sun's first rays would find them in the barracks next to their weapons and their comrades.
Leonidas was waiting for Themistocles alone, at the exit of the guesthouse, holding a lighted torch of pitch and pine resin in his hand. He laughed crustily when he saw his friend's red eyes, and came up to him with good wishes for the new day.
"Is the agora already open?" Themistocles asked sleepily.
"There isn't any agora in Sparta because there isn't any money. Besides, we don't have any use for it."
"And where do you shop for food?"
"What do you mean? We take whatever we need from our land. If we need something we can go to the city's storehouses and get it for free. Our goods are available to every citizen who really needs them.
"So then why did you get me up so early?" Themistocles asked in frustration. He had hoped to use his rhetorical skills on the simple citizens at the agora to influence the decision of the Spartan Senate.
"We will visit the temple of Artemis and then go to the barracks together. Watching the morning drills is the best way for a stranger to understand our military technique. And don't imagine that we would put on a display like this for just anyone. We do it only in exceptional cases and it is a sign of my boundless friendship and esteem for a victor such as yourself."
When the two men returned from the temple where they had offered sacrifices and libations for a favorable outcome of the quickly approaching war, the sun had still not risen but the darkness of night was gone, and a pure light filled the whole valley.
With or without an alliance, it looked like a clash was inevitable. Xerxes had finished gathering his army and completed his preparations for the campaign in Greece. Even to isolated Sparta, without a harbor or trade, rumors had come more and more frequently, more and more ominously.
"The truth is that I had already heard from other mouths what you told me yesterday. And with even larger numbers than the ones you gave. Some speak of eight hundred thousand and others of one million men" Leonidas said suddenly. "But if he has such a huge army, how will he get it here? How will he feed it? How will he supply it with water?"
"With the ships that will accompany him, sailing next to the coast. In this war, the navy will be the most important factor. Without that, Xerxes' campaign will fail…"
"If you do not dominate the land, you have not won the war" Leonidas answered him immediately. "The sea does not produce olives or wheat or grapes. The sea does not have cities. It has nothing but fish. It is merely water. And for Xerxes to dominate our land, he will have to fight us with his army and his solders, not with his ships and his navy."
"Without his ships his army is lost. Five hundred thousand men are impossible to feed on enemy territory, there aren't stores of food that large anywhere. Without the supplies brought by his transports he'll be starved out before he can raise his spear and shield" countered Themistocles.
"You're not wrong about that…"
"Listen to me, Leonidas. Even if you manage to withstand him at the narrow pass of Isthmos, on the road that leads to your city, then Xerxes' ships can transport his army and bypass your phalanxes. And how long will your defenses last if the Persian disembarks his army to your south and you're surrounded? Even your famous phalanxes cannot fight on all fronts at the same time.
Leonidas listened without speaking. Most Spartans only thought about one thing, but Leonidas had a reputation for being open-minded and knowledgeable. He was thinking. He weighed the words he heard from Themistocles. His face suddenly became as dark as the night that had passed. Deep lines of thought were carved on his forehead and his lips darkened as he pressed them together.
But he did not open them. He said nothing. He neither agreed nor disagreed with the Athenian general. Brevity of speech and the ability to keep silent were considered great virtues in Sparta. Together with music and singing, they occupied second place in the hierarchy of the things Spartans valued, after martial ability and obedience to the law.
"That's how it is, my friend…" continued Themistocles. "Sometimes, besides courage, it takes a little imagination to win a war."
"If there is a war… We Spartans are untrusting by nature and don't put much faith in the words of men. From one mouth to the next they grow like clouds in the winter sky…"
"It will happen, Leonidas. You must believe me. It's not just me who says it. The sailors on the merchant ships that come here from the other side of the sea say it too. Xerxes is already bringing his army from Asia to Europe across the straits of Abydos, just above Troy. In a few weeks they'll be here with hundreds of thousands of soldiers and one thousand two hundred warships."
"Not even Ares, the god of war, could gather such an army and cross so many countries in a few weeks. No, I do not believe the situation is as bad or as urgent as some frightened sailors describe…" explained Leonidas seriously, before adding with a smile as he looked at Themistocles, "or even generals…"
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Chapter 41
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Melegros approached his exasperated king, trembling with anxiety and also with fear. In twenty years with Leonidas, the old attendant had learned that no one, for any reason, interrupted military exercises.
Melegros' white head turned leaned towards the king's rich braided crest and he began to whisper furiously in his ear. Moment by moment, listening to the assistant's words, Leonidas' angry face relaxed and finally, his anger at the interruption turned to concern at what he was hearing.
"What is going on?" wondered Themistocles.
"I don't know…" murmured Cimonas, looking around him. "Something unpleasant, though."
"I hope it's not a sudden attack. I wouldn't like to be shut in here in Sparta. The assembly of Athens meets in ten days to set the strategy for war with Persia."
"If there is a war and it's not all one of those rumors that turn people's minds."
"Yes, of course, it could all be in our minds and nothing will happen…" Themistocles commented ironically. There had been no doubt at all in his mind since the moment he saw the Persian troops and denied Artemisia's proposal to follow the Persian king. "But if it happens…"
"You want to be in command."
Themistocles reddened slightly. In the years Cimonas had been with him since the death of his father Miltiades, he had learned exactly how Themistocles thought, his desires and his ways. Themistocles opened his mouth to deny having such an obvious and arrogant ambition, but he didn't have time to say a word.
At that moment, Leonidas looked toward the gate of the barracks and made a sign to the guards standing to the right and the left of the gate, blocking the entrance.
The soldiers stood to the side, and in the open gate appeared the many-colored trousers, the light blue caftan and the yellow hat of a swarthy man, his arms and neck loaded down with golden jewelry and with a gold medallion engraved with a winged lion shining on his breast. Behind him came two more swarthy men dressed the same way, but without jewelry on their bare arms.
One of them carried the Caduceus, a special wooden rod held by official ambassadors which assured them asylum.
The other held a silver vase and a small amphora, to receive the earth and water of the Spartans.
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Chapter 42
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Leonidas laughed. "What kind of a joke is this?"
But the ambassador remained serious. "It is that which is requested by my lord and King of Kings, the Emperor of Asia."
"A little dirt and a little water, that is?" asked Leonidas, as soon as his laughter had subsided. "Did you come all the way here for a little dirt and a little water?"
The Persian made a sign behind him and his attendant came forward, holding out the small amphora and the silver vase. "It is a symbolic declaration of submission…"
"Submission?" asked Leonidas, his face showing his aversion to the hideous word.
"Yes, submission. By giving earth and water… That is what the Great King asks" repeated the Persian ambassador with complete seriousness.
The Spartan stared at him in puzzlement. The demand he had heard was beyond all logic. How could the earth and water of a city be given? Those goods belonged to the gods and not to men. The gods gave them and took them back. No one else.
"Ask Zeus and Apollo, the protectors of Sparta, for them" Leonidas said ironically. "But you'll have to climb to the top of Mount Olympus to do that."
The Persian frowned and his expression became even more dry and formal. "The King of Kings demands earth and water from Sparta" he repeated intensely.
"What does that mean, Persian? I do not understand!" Leonidas said in the same tone.
"You will be subjects. You and your city. Your land and your people will be possessions of my emperor and will belong to him just as all the world from the Mediterranean Sea and Egypt to the Caspian Sea and India belong to him" he announced, taking the amphora and the vase from his attendant and offering them to Leonidas with his own hands.
"How can humans become possessions of other humans without being beaten in battle and taken captive? How can they belong to someone? What you are asking, ambassador, is an insult to the Spartans. We are free citizens and obey only the law of our city. Nothing else! At least, not until we are defeated in battle!"
"The Great Xerxes is not merely human. He is chosen by the great god. He himself is a god."
"Blasphemy!" shouted one of the elders, who was also a priest in the temple of Apollo. "Hubris inside our city itself. Hubris for us and an insult to the god who is our protector!"
Leonidas bent his head. And stayed that way, motionless, thinking, for several moments. Not even the breathing of the guards could be heard in the heat of the summer's noon. Themistocles and Cimonas watched wordlessly, holding their breath. If Leonidas gave a positive answer to save his city, or if he even tried to negotiate with the ambassador, Themistocles' whole strategy would collapse. The Greek alliance would have no chance without the Spartans. The only thing left for the Athenians to do would be to get into their warships and sail away from Athens, looking for another country.
"What about ours?" asked Cimonas in a whisper. "What would they answer?"
Themistocles was lost in thought and in his suspense. "What do you mean, ours?"
"Since a Persian ambassador came here, one will have gone to Athens too. Perhaps one is already there, since our city is closer to Asia. What do you think they answered?"
A new wave of suspense dominated Themistocles. Cimonas was right. In Athens there were many rich aristocrats who would like to see a deliberate surrender to the Persians so as to achieve their double purpose: to save their fortunes from destruction, and to dissolve the democracy. It was certain that Xerxes would bring in old Hippias, who for many years had been living at his court and nursing his hatred for Greeks, as its satrap and tyrant. Then everything the people had achieved—the right to vote, freedom, equality before the law—would be lost. Athens would become an insignificant province, an oppressive tyranny.
"By Zeus… Everything is at stake now…" Themistocles murmured in a choking voice, looking at the Spartan king before him.
At a certain point Leonidas raised his head and looked at the imperious messenger of the Persian king. The golden jewelry flashed on his arms, his legs, his throat and his breast. In his face, his eyes, painted with antinomy, stared straight ahead without moving an eyelash. He was like a statue of arrogance, insolence and contempt, all the qualities the frugal and austere Spartans hated most.
The Persian waited.
Leonidas smiled.
Themistocles squirmed.
|
10.37
|
Jacqueline Druga
|
[
"scifi",
"post-apocalyptic"
] |
[] |
ROLL BY
|
It bothered Ross and Morgan knew it. His face was bruised, his arms had gashes, he looked as if he had been beaten by a mob. When in fact, in a sense, he had been. They didn't reach out and hit him, bite or scratch him, instead they acted like a boa constrictor and tried to squeeze him in. It was the fight to get through that caused the injuries. Those would heal, his mind would take longer.
The tough officer of the law was affected when he dealt with the people that moved outside the motel. So much so, that not five miles down the road and free and clear of the mob, Ross pulled over, stepped from the SUV and walked to the side of the road to vomit.
"Are you all right?" Morgan asked.
With his back to her, Ross lifted a hand but stayed at a distance. Morgan took the time to review the map and compare it to her weather charts. She opened up the back hatch and spread them out, taking cover from the rain under the lifted back end.
They were still in Pennsylvania, but not far from the Ohio turnpike. Even with accidents and cars off the road during the drop, they should still be able to make it free and clear through the highway, provided weather didn't hinder them.
It had rained steadily, but slowed down to a constant drizzle when they were leaving the hotel.
Basically, they fled the motel and just jumped the nearest highway going west. Fortunately, it was the right direction.
She was chilled and looked at the map for a possible stopping point to get clothes and a jacket. It was spring and the temperature didn't surprise her. It worried her, rain could turn into snow. Considering one inch of rain was about a foot of snow, they were in trouble if the temperature dropped any more.
Sipping a bottle of water, Ross approached. "Figure out anything?" he asked.
"Yeah, we could take this route pretty much to Akron then catch another highway. I'm worried about the weather."
"How so?"
"When I looked up the weather maps back in the city, this is what I printed." She pulled out two sheets of paper and lay them side by side. "This one is the jet stream. Weather moves from west to east and typically follows jet streams. As of that day, the jet streams were coming from Chicago, down into Ohio and east. The national weather operates on a color coded system. For storms. Light blue to red and harshest can be white or black. This light color here west of Akron," She pointed. "Pale blue. This is what we are getting right now. Light rain. That darker color, red, we're running right into. That hit Akron last night, this morning, it's not as bad as what just hit Pittsburgh. I'm guessing." She pointed to a weather system just before Akron.
"So we missed it."
"That one. This one here is the one I am worried about. It's big and blackened out. Not a printing error. This should be about a hundred miles west of Akron, and it's bad. We'll hit it late tonight if we keep going. Then again, I'm making predictions on this. Everything is one big storm system, just pockets of intensity."
"How did you learn to predict weather."
"I watched it constantly," Morgan said. "I was obsessed especially when they called for snow. I got so tired of them being wrong, I started learning it."
"Did it help?"
Morgan nodded. "Yes, when I was wrong, I could only blame myself."
"So, Miss Weather Gal, what do you suggest?"
"Hit Youngstown and head south instead of heading due west. Try to miss it like the one we missed in Pittsburgh. It's one o'clock now, we can go a few more hours and then find a safe place to hunker down."
"Then that's what we'll do."
Morgan folded the papers. "We also need to figure out a way to get gas, we have some just not enough to get to Branson."
"We'll figure it out." Ross reached up for the hatch.
"Are you better now?"
"Somewhat."
"Was it because you ran over those people?"
Ross facially winced. "Yes, Morgan. I ran over those people and got sick about it. It bothered me. Didn't it bother you?"
"I don't see them as people."
"How can you say that? They're living, they're breathing…"
"They're dangerous. Maybe one or two aren't, but they operate like animals in a pack mentality. What one does the others do. At least from what I saw at the motel. If we don't figure out a way to get through them, we're in trouble if we run into too many of them. They won't give a shit if we feel bad."
"Were you always like this?" Ross asked, shutting the hatch.
"Like what?"
"Mean. Hard."
Morgan stared at him for a moment, then headed back to the passenger's door. "No. Not always."
"Just wondering. One more thing…"
Morgan stopped.
"This storm you're talking about. You used the term hunker down. How bad is it?"
"I don't know. I never experienced it ever. Red usually is tornado weather. Hopefully we'll avoid it, be under it, but we still need to hunker down," she said. "Put it this way, I believe if there are survivors in that area west, God help them. Because if they aren't ready, there probably won't be survivors when this storm is done."
|
10.37
|
Jacqueline Druga
|
[
"scifi",
"post-apocalyptic"
] |
[] |
DASHING MEMORIES
|
Dawson gave the queerest of looks to Judd when he they passed a road sign that read 'Lodi' and Judd chuckled out with fond remembrance. "Oh man, Lodi. Bet you love Lodi."
"I don't think so," Dawson said after staring at Judd for a moment or two. What's Lodi?"
"Wait. You don't know Lodi, Ohio. Little dude, that's only like forty miles from you. You never were in Lodi?"
Dawson shook his head.
"Man, how have you not been to Lodi. Even I was in Lodi and it's not so small they call it a village."
"Like with huts?"
Judd laughed. "No. There's a whole string of small towns west of Akron, all following the same route."
"You're not from around here. How do you know?"
"Back in the day, we moved around quite a bit on a tour bus. About ten years ago, we were headed from a concert in Erie to Columbus. Passed through the small towns and the bus broke down right outside of Lodi. In fact, we pulled off the exit hoping to find a car repair place and we just busted down. Squad car came by to help out. Just so happened we couldn't get a mechanic if we tried. It was the Sweet Corn festival they have. Just…" Judd noticed Dawson was staring out the window. "I'm boring you, aren't I?"
"No." He paused. "Yeah, a little."
"Lodi is a cool town."
"Hey, maybe the small towns are saved. Maybe they're so small they didn't get hit."
"Maybe," Judd said.
"Like Branson. It isn't big. I dreamt of it you know."
"You told me."
"Some guy named Bill was waving his arm at me saying, 'Come to Branson'."
"You didn't tell me that."
"What do you suppose it means?"
"It means we should go to Branson."
"Think we should stop at these small towns and look for people?"
Judd took a moment to think about it. While they were supposed to head south west before Lodi, they could continue west, even for a little bit, to check the towns. It wouldn't take them too far from the route and it would be worth it to look. All around them was desolation, chances were small town or not, it would be the same way there, too. Besides, what would it hurt to look?
|
10.37
|
Jacqueline Druga
|
[
"scifi",
"post-apocalyptic"
] |
[] |
SPOT
|
The planned route outside of Youngstown, Ohio came to an unexpected end when the road entered what looked like a lake just west of the town of Canfield.
It went across too far and wide to see.
"Did we just hit the end of the country?" Ross asked. "Is everything flooded from here on in? This is insane."
"That's ridiculous."
"Seriously?" Ross snapped. "Are you calling me ridiculous?
"No, just your idea. It has to be the small lake a mile north of here." Morgan looked at the map. "We'll back track and just head further south."
Ross didn't think that was going to work. He swore that somehow the three lakes north of them spilled over from all the rain, if that was even possible. But his fears were unfounded and they remained on dry land.
The name of the town, Salem, sent chills through Ross. He even suggested they go around it. However, the Super Center at the edge of town was calling even him.
The parking lot was full of cars, only a few had crashed. Decomposing bodies scattered about the blacktop. They had a bloated look to them, even more so than other bodies Ross had seen. He attributed it to the rain.
It was dark when they entered the store, no power, the further back in the store Ross went the darker it was. He was able to find flashlights and lanterns. His main search was for those things. Batteries, a Coleman stove, survival items.
Perhaps even some food items.
He was shocked when he saw that Morgan had grabbed a heavy winter coat from the clearance rack.
"It's April," he told her.
"I'm being prepared for snow."
Ross laughed.
"Go on, laugh. It's not even fifty out there. Any colder all that rain is going to be snow. Then we're in trouble."
Ross paused. "Did you see any men's coats?"
They remained in the Super Center probably longer than they should have. Ross had gotten them enough supplies to 'hunker' down as Morgan put it for the night somewhere.
They decided that after Salem, they go about a hundred miles or so southwest and start looking for a stopping place. The weather was holding up, the rain tapered, and Ross held high hopes that Morgan was wrong about the weather front.
They loaded the truck and took the main road toward town. Riding shot gun, Morgan checked the map for alternate roads to get through, figuring, even though smaller, they'd run into the same.
Cars blocking the roads, making things impassible.
There wasn't much conversation in the SUV. In fact Ross found himself increasingly annoyed with Morgan. He once had a partner that annoyed the hell out of him and he used to joke to him, "Man, I swear you're my purgatory. The world ends I'm gonna be stuck with someone like you."
He was kidding.
Morgan was worse than that partner and here Ross was, traveling with the only other person that was alive and lucid and he didn't like her. How did that happen? What did he do in his life to have that?
Bad weather, earthquakes, Ross started feeling silly for wanting to stop, find a quiet corner and get 'me' time. Who does that at the end of the world. Ross was patient and tolerant and all that was going out the window.
His fleeting daydreams of ditching her came to a halt when he stopped the SUV. Ross smiled.
"What is it?" Morgan asked, her nose buried in a map. "Do we need to back up?"
"No. Life."
"What?" Morgan lifted her head. "Oh my God." She, too finally smiled.
Not far ahead, a few blocks perhaps, when the quaint town square of Salem began, they saw people.
They moved across the street, on the sidewalks, pushing strollers and even saw what appeared to be a man walking a dog.
Ross drove faster.
"Careful, they probably aren't expecting a car to come down."
"Yeah, you're right." Ross slowed down. Maybe it was the east side of the country. Maybe it wasn't a dead world after all.
The ecstatic grin on Ross' face took a nosedive when he saw the man walking a dog. He held a lease, but the dog wasn't walking. He dragged the decaying carcass of the animal along the sidewalk.
He looked quickly to Morgan when he heard the 'click' of the automatic locks. The moment the SUV came to a stop, so did everyone in town.
As if all automated, every single person halted and slowly turned at the same time to face the SUV.
"Back up?" Morgan suggested.
"Yeah, backing up." Ross put the SUV in gear and turned his body to peer out the window. When he did he saw more behind them. "Shit."
Every second they waited more came, hundreds of them and they slowly made their way to the SUV. There were far too many, too close, that plowing through was going to be impossible.
|
10.37
|
Jacqueline Druga
|
[
"scifi",
"post-apocalyptic"
] |
[] |
CONSCIENCE
|
"Go." Morgan slammed her hand on the dashboard. "Go. Go, Go. Now."
Hand gripping the gear shift, Ross looked forward. There were many, too many at the hood of his SUV. He peered in the rearview mirror, they were at the back gate, too.
What there was of the daylight was fast blocked out by the people that mobbed the car.
"What the hell, go." Morgan yelled.
Beads of sweat formed on his top lip. He didn't see monsters when he looked out. There were no sores, no decaying flesh. In fact the only marks on them were injuries probably from falling or from a car accident.
These people had a soul, they were alive. They were just suffering and confused.
The last place they went Ross plowed through about four and it filled his gut with guilt. Now, not only were there more of them to go through, he could see their eyes.
"Ross, what are you waiting for?" Morgan demanded.
Suddenly Ross saw him. He stood barely making it over the hood. A child about ten years old. He stood next to a woman wearing a fast food uniform, the left side of her face was burned.
"I don't think they'll hurt us," Ross said. "Let's wait. See if they leave."
"They aren't leaving. Go through them."
He shifted his eyes to Morgan. "I can't. I can't do it. I'm gonna make a run for it."
"No!" she screamed. "Why would you do that? Hit the fucking gas and go."
Ross shook his head. "No. I don't have it in me to kill them. I know it sounds weak…"
"Sounds weak? It is weak!" Morgan reached over.
"What are you doing?
"I'll drive."
"Stop it." He pushed her hands form the wheel. "I honestly don't think they'll hurt us. Just open the door and make a run for it."
"We have supplies."
"We'll get more."
"You're insane. This is what will cause our death. They are out there. They aren't human like we know."
"No, Morgan, they aren't. But that doesn't give us the right to kill them."
"Yeah, it does," Morgan said. "It's us or them. Choose us."
Ross was prepared to argue. He truly believed that if they waited, they would go away.
He was wrong.
Just as he opened his mouth to speak, he saw the man with a baseball bat aiming for Morgan's window.
"Morgan! Watch out…"
Crash!
The baseball bat smashed the passenger's window and slipped from his hand, through the broken window into her lap.
Morgan screamed. Arms reached in, grabbing for her blindly, while she fought their grip.
"Ross! Get them off!"
Ross reached over and grabbed the bat, trying to get them from her, but his swing was limited in the vehicle.
"Run them… over," she ordered.
He put the SUV in gear, but too many blocked the vehicle, he couldn't move it.
"It won't go."
"You did this!" she blasted, they grunted as they pulled her hair and she turned left to right in her seat.
Ross' insides shook, overwhelmed with a wave of feeling like a failure, Morgan screaming out, Ross reached for his door.
Bat in hand he pushed it open and when it did he noticed everyone had moved to the right front side. No one was on his side, they all crowded the front and passenger side.
He would have to clobber his way through to get to her and free her. He was just about to do that and he stopped.
Not a single one of them was in his way or even near him. They went after Morgan.
He had his escape, his way out, his diversion.
With those thoughts, Ross didn't run to help Morgan, he ran the other way.
However, a mere fifty feet away, he stopped again.
What the hell was he doing?
As much as he didn't like her, she was in that position because he didn't want to take a life. Yet, he was willing to sacrifice hers. It had nothing to do with fear. At that moment, when he chose to run, it was them, him or her and he chose himself.
A decision, he knew, if he continued on, he wouldn't be able to live with himself.
It might have been to late or futile, but still holding the bat, Ross raced back to the SUV.
|
10.37
|
Jacqueline Druga
|
[
"scifi",
"post-apocalyptic"
] |
[] |
REGRET
|
What was Ross thinking? He wasn't a coward. He never ran from problems. In fact, he was the guy on the force they said never thought of himself when running into dangerous situations. Yet, there he was, beating the pavement racing, it was a good two blocks before he stopped, turned around and ran back.
The distance was short, however the guilt he carried weighed him down. All he could see was the SUV and the mob that completely engulfed it. They weren't flesh eating creatures, but they were dangerous in a way Ross didn't understand.
Morgan had likened them to a boa constrictor, pressing and squeezing their victims. Ross didn't figure out the why of it. Maybe they just wanted to eliminate what they thought was a threat.
At the moment it was Morgan.
Was his distain towards her so bad that he chose to let her die rather than deal with her? Instantly he became the bad guy, no matter what he did in the past, or would do in the future, leaving her forever defined him.
He raged toward the mob, wielding the bat, swinging it to get through. None of them paid attention. A few fell from the hits, but he didn't make a dent. He powerhouse blow was delivered with emotion and guilt.
Like the regrets the mobbing people weren't going away.
Finally he realized he couldn't do it. He was down. Defeated. He alone was responsible for the death of the only other living person.
Arms and back aching, chest heavy with emotions and breathing labored, Ross dropped the bat and walked backwards. He turned when he was far enough away from the SUV, placed his hand on his knees, bent over slightly and caught his breath.
There was a tap on his back.
He stood straight, and turned around.
Morgan stood there.
"Oh my God," he gushed out.
"You son of a bitch," she said with words deep and gutsy.
Ross wasn't expecting it, and barely saw it coming. The moment she spoke she swung out the bat and connected it to him.
It was lights out.
|
32 Yolks
|
Eric Ripert
|
[
"Andorra",
"food and drink",
"France",
"biography"
] |
[] |
Chapter 39
|
I was part of the last generation of men in France who served a mandatory military service. At the time, I think the government believed that because you received a free college or vocational education and got free healthcare, mandatory military service was a way of paying back. In retrospect, I'm happy I did it. I have the utmost respect for veterans. My paternal grandfather, Antonin, served in both world wars. My mother's father, Fernand, was imprisoned in Morocco and escaped the Germans. But I think as a young kid who served in France during a time of peace, I didn't really get it.
After the two months of weapons training, because of my résumé as a chef, I was assigned to the kitchen of the mess. I was happy to go to the kitchen because the food was pretty good, and I was looking forward to contributing to that.
On my first day cooking in the mess, my boss announced, "Today we will make calamari and sauce Americaine. Ripert, you can take care of it."
Sauce Americaine is like a lobster bisque, very technical. You have to crush the heads of the lobster, for one. But I was up for it, even excited about it.
Then he handed me a box of frozen calamari. I nodded. It wasn't ideal, but I'd make it work. This was the military, not Jamin. I understood that not all of the ingredients I'd be cooking with would be fresh.
"Where are the lobster heads to make the sauce?" I asked.
He shrugged. "Make a béchamel, then add ketchup and brandy."
I was in shock. Meanwhile, the other cooks in the mess, who had been tasked with making spaghetti, had managed the unthinkable: they burned the spaghetti while it was cooking in the boiling water. Because they did not stir the spaghetti, or time it, the pasta stuck to the bottom of the kettle and burned. I had never seen—or smelled—anything like it in my life.
I was so horrified that I decided to go and talk to the colonel. He agreed to see me. One of the things I liked about him from the start was that he was a cool customer, slow to anger, very elegant. I was nineteen years old and I had a mouth on me, so I gave it to him straight. I told him, "I cannot cook shit food the likes of which I have seen today. I'm going to be depressed and get sick. I cannot perform the mess hall duty."
The colonel smiled at me.
I didn't realize how ridiculous I must have sounded, but I was young and I had just come from Robuchon, a place where we worshipped every mushroom, every fava bean, every potato. I believed with all my heart that the appalling behavior passing for cooking that I had witnessed in the mess hall kitchen was a sacrilege.
"You don't want to be in the mess hall. Should I send you to the commandos?" He was being sarcastic, but it was lost on me.
"Sir, I can't do the commandos." Those were the guys who were being prepped to fight in the hot spots of the day, Chad and Lebanon. This, needless to say, terrified me. "Look at me!" I said, pointing at my skinny frame. "Do I look like a warrior? A top-secret killer?"
He threw up his hands. "Do you want to be my waiter?"
It was perfect. I waited on him and his guests at lunch and sometimes at dinner in the dining hall above the canteen, which happened to be next to a poultry market. I gave them three-star service—if there had been food to carve tableside or crèpes to flambé, I would have done it happily. Because I worked with a high-ranking officer, I was given privileges that my fellow soldiers envied, like the ability to leave the base after work and get most weekends off. Unfortunately, I still had to go through the program.
Most guys had never experienced discipline like this. For me, I felt like I was on vacation, just with shorter hair. (And even that I didn't mind. What, they were going to break my spirit by shaving my head? Did that actually work?) Because I'd been a part of a professional kitchen, I understood the hierarchy and discipline of the brigade—and why it's necessary. You work at the level to which you are assigned, performing set tasks within a designated space. You do not think for yourself; you take orders only from the person in charge of your station, and ultimately from the sous-chef, that revered and feared individual who runs the kitchen under the orders of the chef and is the only person allowed to talk during service. Failure to follow orders could result in injury or, worse, a ruined meal. It was just like the military, from which the system was taken. Yet, I have to say that I never felt fully at home during my training.
Back in Andorra, Jacques, who had been Special Forces, seemed to understand my plight completely. "It makes sense that you are bored with your training," he said. "Your battlefield is in the kitchen. The soldiers who know your struggle best are back in Paris, at Jamin."
|
32 Yolks
|
Eric Ripert
|
[
"Andorra",
"food and drink",
"France",
"biography"
] |
[] |
Chapter 41
|
All I could think about was ending things with Bernadette. The relationship was becoming more challenging because Bernadette was young and prone to jealousy, and I was so focused on my career. A plan began to take shape: I would tell her that I was going back to work in Paris, and that she had to stay and finish lycée. I would promise to come back next summer, saying that we'd figure out what to do then. Or better yet: I was being sent to Chad as a secret commando. We must never speak again, for the security of the country….
Her brother had another suggestion: over breakfast a few weeks before the end of my service, he leaned close and whispered, "Bernadette's jealousy is consuming her. The two of you will never work. Just leave. We won't tell her where you've gone." I knew he was right, and I should have accepted his help. But I still liked Bernadette, and there was something about her that I found hard to let go.
Then, right before I finished my military service, I went to a movie in Toulouse. The film was An Officer and a Gentleman. At the end, all of the officers leave their girlfriends behind when they change bases, callously breaking the women's hearts. But not the hero. He blows back into town on a motorcycle because he can't live without the woman he loves. It seems so silly now, but I left the theater inspired. So much so that I developed a serious case of amnesia regarding the dynamic of our relationship. I decided that I wasn't going to leave my girlfriend, making her just another jilted sweetheart in a military base town. Instead, I invited her to come live with me back in Paris. I was twenty-one, Bernadette was nineteen, and we were playing house in an uninsulated, definitely illegal plywood shack that had been rigged together on top of an old apartment building next to the Porte de Versailles. (I told my mother it was a penthouse.) It meant a serious commute to the restaurant, but it was all I could afford.
|
32 Yolks
|
Eric Ripert
|
[
"Andorra",
"food and drink",
"France",
"biography"
] |
[] |
Chapter 43
|
The pressure of working for Robuchon was taking its toll and too often the stress of work followed me home. At least once a week I awoke from a nightmare in which I had screwed up my mise and Robuchon was about to open my fridge. One night, after a particularly rough service, I came home, took one look in the refrigerator and yanked Bernadette out of bed.
"Look at this fridge!" I yelled. "Look at this fucking mess! I want you to fix it right now. How can you be so disorganized? Who treats their lettuces like that? What did you do to my mushrooms?"
She stared at me in frightened disbelief. "You're going crazy!" she said, beginning to cry. "What's happening to you at that place?"
What was happening was that I was losing it. And so were the guys in the kitchen around me. We were buckling under the pressure and the constant barrage of criticism, and we were becoming mean. No matter where I was, I felt like I was constantly under siege.
Bernadette was miserable as well. She wasn't used to living in the city and stayed alone in the apartment all day. The only time she left or spent time with anyone else was on the weekends when we saw Maurice and his girlfriend, or went to the occasional neighborhood bistro. Even if she'd been comfortable enough to go to a great restaurant, we couldn't afford to eat there, since I spent all my money on rent, métro tickets, and groceries. For me, there was no such thing as a sandwich or a bowl of spaghetti on the weekend. When I cooked at home, I shopped for the same quality of ingredients that my mother or Robuchon would buy, and always prepared an appetizer, entrée, and dessert, which meant that our little dinners ended up being much more expensive than dining out. Finally, after a year, we moved to a slightly better place in the 13th arrondissement and Bernadette got a job working at a hotel trade magazine, which helped for a while.
|
32 Yolks
|
Eric Ripert
|
[
"Andorra",
"food and drink",
"France",
"biography"
] |
[] |
Chapter 46
|
The whole kitchen staff got a reprieve when Robuchon took an extended trip to Japan. Things were so peaceful when he was away—busy and intense, yes, but it was so much easier to focus on making sure my execution was perfect without his intimidating presence. And then suddenly he was back, determined to sashimi our egos down to size.
"You think you guys are champions and that you are the best because you work in a three-star restaurant." He stalked around the kitchen, making sure to lock eyes with each and every one of us. "You all suck! In Japan, the chefs are ten times better than you. They're more humble than you. They are more skilled, more precise, more gifted. Better, better, best! They are better, and they are the best!" It was crushing at the time, but when I traveled to Japan myself years later, I understood. In Japan, the restaurants had the precision and the unerring commitment to excellence he was always aiming for. It was his dream: the Japanese perfection of Western cuisine.
Robuchon was one of the first chefs in France to be influenced, and mesmerized, by Japanese cooking. And it's perhaps in his cuisine that the Asian influence has been felt the greatest. That influence was mostly felt in the fish station. In technique and in presentation, Jamin began to represent a bridge between French culture and Japanese culture. Robuchon was creating that bridge and we were all a part of it.
Though fear and pressure in some ways defined my time at Jamin, there was also a tremendous amount of pride in working there. It took months to get a reservation, and just to say that you worked with Robuchon was like saying you played guitar for a world-famous rock band: people didn't necessarily know you, but they knew you were big-time.
|
2040 Reconnection
|
Kris Schnee
|
[
"fantasy"
] |
[
"virtual reality",
"Thousand"
] |
Chapter 36
|
Alma returned to Hoofland and bought the three most popular novels written by the locals. One was a standard fantasy adventure except that everyone had hooves, with no humans mentioned. The second was a family saga about a civilization in the sky, trading with the ground but never part of it until a fateful battle and a forbidden romance made them cross paths. The third was a convoluted interactive book in which the reader was supposed to collect missing pages by traveling around Hoofland and fighting the same monsters as the hero. (Best to save that one for later.) She started to head back to read at Ivory Tower where she had hands, then thought better of it; this was literature meant for the new equine species. Double Mango's inn was a better place to experience it.
She focused on the second book; its author was said to be a "true Hooflander". It entertained her and didn't strike her as the work of a soulless monster, just someone with a keen eye for conflicts of loyalty and social pressures. It seemed that you could write well even with an inhuman mind and a lack of thumbs. All the books looked like fancy gilt-edged tomes or cool leather journals or papyrus scrolls. It was possible to duplicate items exactly, so why not make them look nice? The Hooflanders seemed to value artistry in all that they did.
The innkeeper peeked in, upside-down in the wooden room's doorframe. "Check-out time, miss! Will you be staying another day?"
Alma stretched her wings and hooves. It was evening, time for business to start in this town. "Not this time. I've got work Earthside in a few subjective hours. How has it been having real food again?"
Double Mango dropped to the floor and brandished a plate with a slice of strawberry pie and whipped cream at her. "I saved you leftovers from my own oven! Here."
"How'd you do that?"
Mango grinned fangily. "Carrying stuff inverted? Species secret. It's not too late to go leather-winged."
Alma took the pie and awkwardly nibbled it muzzle-first, holding the plate steady between her hooves. The berries were just as good as any outside Talespace. "You make a good case for it! Need to work out some other things before I investigate any other changes around here, though."
The two of them chatted about cooking with computer data. Kai had given her a few lessons on the transition from real biochemistry, to the crude approximation of food that early Talespace minds used, to the latest system. "It's game-like by necessity," Alma said. "We've got simulations of different flavors and textures, but we're not doing a full chemical model of something as fundamental as fermentation. Hot oil makes potato chunks crispy, but I'm sure there's subtlety I'll never know so long as I make my french fries within Talespace."'
"So?" asked Mango.
Alma explained her misgivings about astronomy for anyone who grew up in a magical land like this, where stars were decorations, or Ivory Tower, where they didn't exist. "Isn't our creativity in here kind of bounded by what we brought in, versus discovering new things?"
The innkeeper fluttered her wings as she thought about it. "That's a reason to keep in touch with Earth, then. To keep fetching new ideas."
Alma smiled; it sounded like a job for "Ratatosk" the rumor-bearer. The trade in ideas ought to flow in both directions, too.
|
2040 Reconnection
|
Kris Schnee
|
[
"fantasy"
] |
[
"virtual reality",
"Thousand"
] |
Chapter 38
|
The portal to Endless Isles took the form of a pond in a crystal forest. Alma dived into it and with a confusing flip of gravity, came up from the surface of a hot spring in another world.
You have discovered Endless Isles: the Sea of Mystery!
She smiled, then climbed to the grass and looked around. Water dripped from her fur in the usual stylized giant droplets that passed for fluid simulation, but the feeling of being soaked was realistic enough.
The portal back to Ivory Tower stood in a garden surrounded by thatch huts, the same as her first brief visit here. A sign marked this as "Central Island, Zone 0/0", the center of the Isles. Alma tapped a checkpoint crystal and followed the chime of steel drums to a beach where a volleyball game was in progress. Some of the onlookers were more interested in a pair of street fighters leaping around shooting fireballs and sonic booms. Sailboats ventured along the shore.
She shut her eyes for a moment and breathed salty air, feeling sunlight on her face.
Alma headed for the volleyball crowd. Sand tickled her feet through her sandals, making her smile. Like smell and taste, touch sensations were still absent or muted sometimes for simplicity's sake, but being here was enough.
"Hey, you!" said a scary shark-man with swim trunks and a surfboard. "Want to play the next round?"
She breathed deeply of salty wind. "I haven't played in, oh, forty years."
"So? This isn't league play, and half the players are NPCs so you can jump in without hurting anybody's feelings. Just change outfits in the booth over there."
"Outfits?" Alma glanced down at her long leather-armor tunic, more suited to adventuring in the forest than playing on the beach. "Sure."
She got into the changing booth before realizing all the players were women, the audience was mostly male, and the free loaner clothes were bikinis. Alma giggled nervously. "Okay, fine. If I'm going to make a fool of myself I'll look hot doing it."
She was self-conscious at first, but had a good time. After that she bet on a few of the street fighters and joined in on the next fight herself, which just got her pounded into the sand.
Her opponent, a bare-knuckled pirate, helped her up while the crowd clapped and jeered. "You're not using your full power!" he said.
"I need to learn the art of the dragon punch?" At least the sand brushed off of her in gravel-sized grains.
"Don't you have any special moves or spells or anything yet?"
"Magic, but..."
"Then get your magic butt back into the game!"
An announcer called out, "Round two! Fight!"
As she'd feared, she couldn't charge up a spell in mid-brawl without leaving herself wide open to the foe's Cannonball Rush and plain old punches. Magic, at least her kind, wasn't well suited for close-up, one-on-one fighting. Without having her sling-staff or any wands yet, she got clobbered quickly. She did at least manage to land a wimpy kick at one point, avoiding total humiliation.
The pirate posed and basked in the crowd's applause. "You need more skill if you're going to challenge me again!"
Alma slinked away, but he stopped her, saying, "Want a lesson later? Brawling is an art that really pays off with practice."
She forced a smile and walked back to change clothes and grab her backpack. "No, thanks. I need to get some other things done."
Near the volleyball court stood the Crown and Tail Pub. She went into the air conditioning and had a margarita while she cooled off. Some of the people here were obviously Earthside, portrayed as reading books or watching TV while their players presumably did the same thing. A party of adventurers were in one corner talking about sailing ship designs. Alma looked around with the status-checking gesture just to browse the names and classes and player-written notes on everybody. The notes were things like "Not my beloved peasant village!", "Ronin of Miyamoto", and "A burning heart is the best kind".
She asked around about getting a ride to the island where Phoenix's group lived. Someone pointed it out on a map of the known ocean. "North-30/East-12!" she said. "Getting all the way out there probably means weeks of adventuring."
"That's the point," said an otter-man with a lot of wind-and water-themed shamanic marks. "Once you get there it'll feel like a huge accomplishment that you can now warp in and out of the Isles from nearby."
Alma spun a little on her barstool, enjoying the ocean breeze that wafted through the wooden bar. "But will it be an accomplishment?"
"Sure. The world's got rules."
There were markings on the otter's upper arms and the edge of another visible near his heart, hidden by his vest. "You've reached the limit of shaman power?" asked Alma.
He shut his eyes for a moment and nodded. "One sort of power, yeah. I've thrown my lot in with this world instead of obsessing over something I can't have. How about you? You look new."
She introduced herself. "I've got a life out there, so I can't dally too much at seafaring."
"Like a shark. You can never stop. I know your type." The otter gave a wan smile. "Since you don't measure your achievements in terms of how many mystic doodads you get or how much of a map you've charted, go ahead and treat the world as an Internet chatroom. Why haven't you just e-mailed these people you're looking for?"
"I was thinking I'd go to their base and have a look."
The man lurched to his feet and finished his jug of rum. "Without bothering to go there, being there won't mean much to you. Make up your mind already where you belong, squirrel lady." He stomped out, banging his rudder-tail on the doorway.
Alma sighed. Some mythical world-climbing Ratatosk she was. She didn't fit neatly into any role, whether it was a Talespace-focused life of adventuring or an Earthside career. She was living disconnected lives.
But... who said she was obligated to play only one role?
Alma used a roundabout magic messenger system to e-mail Phoenix from the bar. "I'm here, but I haven't got time right now to visit your island. Can you get here?"
|
2040 Reconnection
|
Kris Schnee
|
[
"fantasy"
] |
[
"virtual reality",
"Thousand"
] |
Chapter 41
|
She took the journey through Endless Isles one step at a time. Once she reached each major checkpoint and stuck a personal flag there (crafted on a magic loom she had to fight her way to), she could come and go from the Isles at that point. Her sea voyages were a kind of peaceful conquest, marking where she'd been and what she'd accomplished. It was during her third session of sailing and exploration, steadfastly toward Phoenix's island base, that Poppy called again.
"You busy?" asked Poppy by text. The words appeared in midair along with a virtual keyboard for a reply.
The message hovered near the prow of Alma's little boat, which she'd borrowed. She was considering trading in her tent for an upgradeable sailboat, which would be a cooler mobile base but might not work if she ended up spending much time in Hoofland.
"I'm sailing, but haven't gotten far yet today. What's up?"
Poppy said, "I wanted to ask about your teaching work. Would you mind letting me watch your next Earthside session? I can be your research assistant."
"If you like. But I'm going to stop doing that job after this month." All around her were rippling blue sea and cloudy sky. Squirrel was the wrong species for a place like this; she should become a dolphin or a seagull. "There are so many things to do in Talespace, I want to focus on teaching people here rather than Texas."
"What? You're giving up on Earthside teaching?"
Alma sighed and pulled the boat's tiller to start heading back to her closest exit from the Isles. She'd been going in enough different directions at once, that it was all right to lose a little progress in one of them. "Let's meet up."
|
2040 Reconnection
|
Kris Schnee
|
[
"fantasy"
] |
[
"virtual reality",
"Thousand"
] |
Chapter 43
|
She taught Earthside and helped invent an innovative new way to do that through multiple screens and AI assistants. She checked up on Stobor as his family prepared him for uploading, and traded congratulations with Hernandez on moving the AFS toward acceptance of uploading and all that it'd do for the country. She fought monsters, cast spells, and sailed across an imaginary sea to an island where a new group of students awaited her. She let Kai take her back to his sanctum and do amazing things with her, not all of which involved magic lessons. She read novels written by talking horses born of silicon, flew through Talespace's sky on feathered wings, flew through Earth's sky on robot wings of cloth and plastic, transformed into half a dozen shapes, browsed a catalog of mental upgrades, fought a dragon, comforted the frightened, mocked the proud, and laughed, learned, loved.
It came to pass that she hadn't talked with Ludo or even heard her name for more than a week. That was all right. Defending liberty and the right of people to find their own path meant not having an authority constantly watching and intervening. From the stories Alma heard, the great AI did manage some other people's lives much more than hers, but that was okay too. There were many ways to live. The people of Talespace were starting to figure out what should hold them together even as they explored in all directions.
She'd had only months of this busy new life so far. Alma the teacher, the cleric, the nerd, the transhuman, saw a new world coming into being, and felt that she was ready to help it in whatever way it needed.
What happened next caught everyone off guard... but that was all right, too.
|
10.37
|
Jacqueline Druga
|
[
"scifi",
"post-apocalyptic"
] |
[] |
LAST CHORD
|
They were filled with hope. Even though the slow moving trip was taking longer than it should have, they were in contact with Branson.
"Radio when you're within fifty miles. You may run into trouble. We'll look for you," Bill from Branson told them.
Ross didn't know what that meant, maybe they had trucks out on the roads. As instructed they checked in every fifty miles. Sometimes with a longer reply, most with a "Roger that."
They put the last of the gas in the tank, with a little over a hundred miles to go. Only in a few places did the water ever recede.
Two hundred miles before Branson, Judd started to cough. He talked less, and slept more. Sister Helena said he was burning up.
Fifty miles before Branson, they placed their final radio call and they didn't think too much of the lack of response, until only three miles later, the journey ended.
The road just ended and nothing but a huge lake of water blocked their way. The water washed back and forth in a wave like manner against the concrete, almost as if it was always there, a natural lake.
Tips of trees poked through the dark water, but there was nothing more as far as the eye could see.
Ross stepped from the truck. He knew the temperature had dropped, but he didn't realize how cold it was.
Too cold to rain, that was for sure, even though the sky was clouded over. Ross spread the map out on the hood of the truck. "Branson is by that mountain range." He exhaled in frustration. "What now?"
"You know, from the moment Judd picked me up, I bitched about cutting the boat loose." She tilted her head in a nod to the boat. "I've never been so happy to be wrong."
"Do you know anything about boats?"
"Nope. Do you?"
"Not enough. Should we stay here?"
"No, we have to try. We'll layer up clothing, we have to try."
"He's sick, Morgan. If it rains, the cold…"
"We have to try. Those aren't rain clouds. They're too high. This…" She pointed up. "Is snow. We need to move."
He was hesitant, but eventually he agreed.
It was the trickiest thing he had ever done in his life and it reiterated to Ross how much he didn't know. It was all guess work.
Judd helped. He woke enough to explain how to unhitch the boat and coughed his way through explaining how to get the motor going and how to steer, explaining it was like a lawn mower.
He loaded Judd, Dawson and the supplies in the boat first. Once he had the boat near the water's edge, Sister Helena got in, and Ross and Morgan pushed the boat out, climbing in once they cleared the road.
It was so cold it hurt and the muscles in his legs cramped.
A chill set into his bones and he knew it wasn't going away anytime soon. The cold wind that continuously blew didn't help either. He hated starting the motor and the speed of the boat made it even colder. So many bodies floated in water, they looked like logs.
Morgan kept trying the radio.
Nothing.
It was a mistake, a huge mistake getting in the boat. Ross felt it, he knew for certain when the water thickened with sludge and ice and the motor fluttered and finally stalled.
The boat stopped moving. Ross tried and tried again to start it, however it was useless.
They were going nowhere.
Surrounded by gray chunks of concrete and ice that floated by. Unfortunately, they were at a standstill.
In the quiet of nature's newest Missouri lake, Ross resolved they had reached the end of their journey.
He felt horrible for Dawson. The little boy was covered in a blanket, never leaving Judd's side. Every time Judd's body shook with a cough, Dawson hugged him.
"I'm sorry," Morgan said. "We should have stayed."
"No." Ross shook his head. "What's meant to be was meant to be. I just... I just can't figure out why we made it this far. What was the point?"
"Maybe it's bigger than us," Sister Helena said. "Perhaps there was a reason beyond our knowledge that we were meant to be. Maybe being something to each other before we leave this earth was enough."
Immediately, Ross looked at Morgan.
"What?" she asked.
"Usually, you make an anti-God statement at this time."
"Nah, not this time." She glanced at Dawson. "There are no atheists in this foxhole right now."
"Oh my God, people," Judd spoke weakly. "You all are so morbid. I'm the one that's dying here."
"Judd no," Dawson whimpered. "Please don't say that."
"Sorry, Buddy." Judd tried to sit up. "You guys are moping."
Whispering, Ross leaned to him. "We're stalled. We're stuck. It's cold. We aren't going anywhere. We're at the end of the line."
"For now. There's a reason," Judd said.
"What would that be?" Ross asked.
"My legacy. My song. I have to make sure it lives on."
"I know it." Ross laughed.
"Yeah, but do you know the chords?" Judd asked, then coughed. "Sister, I know you have a journal. Was it saved?'
"I… I think." She grabbed her backpack. "Yes. Yes it was."
"Grab a pen, write down these chords. Ross needs them. Morgan, can you hand me my guitar?"
"Sure." Morgan grabbed it.
Judd tried to inch his way to a sitting position. He grunted and Ross helped him up. He then placed the strap over Judd's head.
Weakly, he placed his hand on the guitar. He eyes rolled slightly and his head jerked as he caught himself dozing off. He muttered the simple three chord progression of the verse, then the chorus to Sister Helena, then struck an off tune chord.
"You gonna play, Judd?" Dawson asked.
"I am. Not very good. Not very fast, but I need to play. Join in if you know it."
The beat wasn't as fast as the recording, and in the stand still boat, Judd struggled to play.
Steam emerging from their mouths, they slowly sang with Judd. Their voices echoing across the water filled land.
"Walking in the rain, feeling no more pain, Jack and Jim my best friends again. I can stumble, I can fall, I can take it all, but the addictions in my blood …keeps me heart a flarin'…"
"Craving…" Judd sang, then stopped. His head tilted back.
"Judd? Judd!" Dawson screamed out panicked.
"Look." Judd peered up to the sky. "An angel."
Ross felt heartbroken when Judd said that, until he heard the distant flutter of a helicopter. "Judd. That's not an angel. It's a chopper. We're saved. We're saved."
Silence.
Ross' eyes met Dawson's as the little boy clutched Judd's hand and his head fell to Judd's chest.
The glory and excitement of the hovering rescue was shrouded in a gloom, far darker than the clouds.
Judd… was gone.
|
10.37
|
Jacqueline Druga
|
[
"scifi",
"post-apocalyptic"
] |
[] |
BRANSON
|
Branson, Missouri was gone. Technically it was still there, but under water. Those who survived the drop of humanity, heard about the storms and retreated to the Branson Airport twelve hundred feet above sea level.
Bill Thomas ran the airport and greeted them when they arrived.
He was just like Dawson dreamt. A little older, a little thicker, but he looked and sounded the same as he had in his dreams.
"Out west there's not much, but there's life and civilization," Bill said. "We have enough fuel for one more flight out."
Dawson didn't hear much about where they were going. Somewhere in Colorado. He heard Bill explain to Ross that it was some sort of manmade incident gone bad. That's what they were thinking, and nature took over.
They believed the water was going to keep on rising for a while so they were headed to high elevation areas.
"It will end up becoming a whole new geographical world," Bill told them.
Dawson didn't know what that meant. He half listened. He was more concerned about Judd. He didn't want to leave him, he couldn't leave him.
"I'm sorry, little man, I really am." Ross said. "We're going to get cleaned up and get some new clothes. You wanna come, or stay here?"
"I want to stay with Judd for a little bit."
"Okay you do that. Listen," Ross crouched down. "You're not alone. You have us, alright. We're here for you."
Dawson nodded.
"Will he be okay?" Morgan asked.
"I'm here," Sister Helena said. "I'll stay. Go get fresh clothes."
Dawson sat on the floor by Judd's covered body. At least they didn't leave him behind.
The chopper could have left Judd, but the pilot didn't.
They airlifted them all, one by one, including Judd into the chopper.
Because of the radio calls, they knew there was an injured man, and a paramedic was on board. He tried with diligence to revive Judd the entire short flight to Branson, but it was futile.
Dawson wanted to cry, he just couldn't believe his friend was gone. He was in shock. He kept waiting for Judd to open his eyes. He never did. He died with the guitar in his hands.
The adults around him talked about a reason for this and a reason for that. Dawson wanted and needed a reason why Judd left him. However, nobody could give him one.
Judd made a promise and kept it.
He kept Dawson safe all the way to Branson.
That meant something to Dawson. He knew his parents would be happy about that. All those people Dawson knew were now gone, those he loved… gone. It was now his job, his responsibility to keep them alive, to honor them. His parents… and Judd.
Even at his young age, he knew the best way to do that was to live and survive.
It would be a different way of life, but he would give it his best shot.
He didn't really have a choice. His parents and Judd would have wanted that.
|
10.37
|
Jacqueline Druga
|
[
"scifi",
"post-apocalyptic"
] |
[] |
SEVEN YEARS LATER
|
His knuckles made a popping noise when he clenched his cramping fingers into a fist. "Damn it," Dawson shook his hand.
"Language." Came the voice in another room.
"He heard that?" Dawson shook his head. "Man."
He lay on his single bed in a bedroom he shared in the three room apartment in Leadville Nine. It was small, but it was home. Everything was neat and tidy, always, except his corner of the room.
Note book sprawled out next to him, Dawson lifted a pencil, wrote a sentence, bobbed his head, hummed a little, then stuck the pencil in his mouth before working out the chord progression on the guitar.
He had it. He almost had it when there was a knock on his door.
"Aw, man."
It opened and Ross stepped in. "Hey, now, let's go. You know Joe only comes to do hair once a month. You miss this appointment I'm cutting your hair myself."
Dawson groaned. The last time Ross cut his hair it was horrible. He was twelve and Ross made so many mistakes Dawson ended up nearly bald.
Dawson used to say he got stuck with Ross. When they arrived in Leadville after the events, it was supposed to be temporary, but they never left.
Ross immediately 'claimed' him, telling Dawson, "I had children, I can do this. Okay?"
"Yeah okay." Dawson was eight. He figured that was what he had to do.
Ross wasn't a bad guy, he was tough and strict yet Dawson was really glad he had him.
Ross immediately was given a job in security enforcement and was one of the main men that built the small living complexes.
"We'll go somewhere else one day," Ross would say. Dawson was still waiting. He figured by now it wasn't going to happen, because with each passing year, Ross had even more responsibility.
Every civilization, at least the functioning ones, were so far apart and separated by the new lakes, the only way there was by boat. It took a lot of bartering to even get passage.
North of the Rockies, there was a lot of area not flooded, but the land was overrun with Trancers, there were more of them than people who were normal. Everyone kept saying they'd die out, but they never did.
Dawson fully believed they were the new evolution of man.
Ross told him it was nonsense.
Life was simple. He got up, went to school and then work. At fifteen he had a job, everyone over the age of thirteen did. He worked in pickling and hated it. Leadville Nine was the smallest of the twelve complexes. A hundred and thirteen people lived there. They farmed their own section and bartered with neighboring villages.
When he was younger he used to think that Ross and Morgan would end up together. They never got along, they always fought. Dawson remembered how she used to be. She ended up being pretty nice. She married a guy in Leadville Seven and had two kids. He visited her every week.
Sister Helena was the one only one who left the mountain and was teaching in California somewhere. She took a boat and only came back three times in the past seven years.
He missed her, he thought of her, but rarely saw her. That was life now.
"Hey." Ross snapped his finger. "Are you listening?"
"I almost have this," Dawson said. "I really do."
"I know, but your hair is too long. It needs to be cut. I want to spend time with you. Hang out. Can you please put down the guitar? I know it's hard to do, it's like an extension of your body."
Dawson laughed. "Alright He grabbed a cloth, wiped off the neck of the guitar to free it from smudges, then gently set it on his bed. The guitar meant a lot to Dawson. It hadn't left his side since it left Judd's hands.
"Can you clean up this mess later?" Ross asked.
"Aw, man, you kill me." Dawson groaned.
"No, you… kill me." Ross mussed his shaggy hair. "Let's go. We won't be long."
Dawson nodded as he reached down and closed his notebook.
"You writing a new song?" Ross asked.
"Yeah, I am. Trying to anyways."
"Can I hear it?"
"When we get back." Dawson followed him through the door.
"What's it called?"
"It's called …. Call me Mr. Heston."
Closed mouth, Ross nodded. "Good title."
"Yeah. Yeah it is."
The title was good and had more meaning than Ross probably would understand.
Life wasn't all that exciting for Dawson, however it was good in its own way. He had his music, he had Ross, and he had his memories.
In a world that was tossed upside down, Dawson had landed on his feet.
Before leaving with Ross, Dawson looked back once at the guitar on his bed and pulled the door closed with a smile.
|
10 Holiday Stories
|
Dara Girard
|
[
"contemporary"
] |
[
"short stories"
] |
Chapter 4
|
She wouldn't have recognized him, Eva thought as she stared at John. He didn't look anything like the boy she'd used to run from. And where had his vanity gone? Her mother used to call him Mr. O'Jay referring to a polished singing group the O'Jays from the past. 'Look it up,' she liked to tell him. John would never have worn a uniform that didn't fit him before. But perhaps the years overseas had changed him. That was possible. Although she doubted it. There was something she didn't trust about him.
"Remember when we used to play that video game and every time you scored you'd punch me in the arm?" she asked him.
"What's past is past," Miranda said.
"I remember it clearly," Eva said, helping herself to another roll. "Just wondered if he did."
"I guess I wasn't the nicest kid," he said without apology.
Eva frowned. Even his voice didn't seem to match what she remembered. Although she didn't know how John sounded now, she'd never imagined his dark, sarcastic edge. John was always about charm. That's why he got into trouble with little consequence. However, this large, grim man looked as if he'd spent half his life facing the corner. "Think you're better now, soldier?"
"I hope so."
"We weren't even sure you'd make an appearance," Mary said, giving Eva a stern look. "So that's an improvement."
Eva stared at her mother, surprised. She usually was more suspicious of people than Eva was, but she'd smiled with pleasure when John gruffly complimented her spicy rice. However, Eva wouldn't be as easily swayed no matter how handsome he was. She sensed something off—something wrong. Ms. Miranda was too dear to her for her to ignore her instincts. She hoped John wouldn't stay long. That he'd spend one night in the little guest room Ms. Miranda so lovingly put together—newly painted, aired, scented with a fresh bouquet of flowers—and then disappear out of her life.
|
10.37
|
Jacqueline Druga
|
[
"scifi",
"post-apocalyptic"
] |
[] |
PAIRING
|
That firm rule of 'Don't talk to strangers' went out the window, and Dawson was sure his mother would not be mad. After all, if the guy was all that bad, his mother wouldn't have subscribed to his videos. Dawson was glad she did or else he wouldn't have seen the notification of a new video. When it popped up, Dawson knew someone out there was still alive.
Lucky for the guy, Dawson was watching videos or he would have missed it. Yes, he was glad the man found him, really glad, but Dawson sensed the man needed him, too.
Just because he was a grown up, didn't mean he wasn't scared. In fact, Dawson felt bad for him. He was stuck far from home, when Dawson himself was in his own bed. It was dark and the man was so scared, he was talking funny, his eyes were as red as Dawson's probably from crying. But he sang good and wrote a fun song. Dawson watched the video three times before leaving a comment. It made Dawson calm. He needed calm, he cried a lot the night before. So much that his eyes were puffy and his eyeballs were dry. He thought he used up all his tears. That was until the man arrived and Dawson cried again.
Dawson was a hugger, so when the man showed up at his house he just grabbed on to him. He was tall guy, not real thin like his dad, nor did he have the pillow gut. Dawson felt like he was a friend, especially after the video.
After he showed up, Dawson didn't know what was next. The guy stepped in, shut the door and Dawson was a little scared.
"You aren't gonna kill me, are you?" Dawson asked.
"Nah," the man crouched down to be at his height. "Why? You ain't planning on killing me, are you?"
"Not if I don't have to."
He smiled and rubbed Dawson's hair. "Look, I'm not real good with kids, I don't have a lot experience. You know how it goes. But I like them. I think you're pretty damn brave to be standing here in front of me after yesterday."
"It was scary."
"Yeah, it was." Judd agreed.
"I liked your song."
"Thanks, it was a last minute thing."
"What now?" Dawson asked.
"Well, we'll figure that out. Did you eat?"
"Only some string cheese."
"Not a meal. Bet you have food."
"We do. My mom likes to shop," Dawson said.
"Don't all women?"
Dawson shrugged.
"Tell you what. Lights are still on, bet the water is still warm. Looks like you're still in your school uniform. Why don't you get a change of clothes, take a shower or bath, whatever kids take these days, and I'll make us some food. Sound good?"
Dawson nodded.
"How hungry are you? Little hungry? Regular hungry, or big?"
"Very big."
"Then big breakfast it is. Go shower."
"Okay." Dawson took a few steps back, then stopped. "I'm glad you're here, Mr. Heston." Then Dawson ran to his room to get his clothes. He meant his words. There was a feeling of scared that Dawson had since school. Sometimes it was less, sometimes it was so strong his whole body shook, but whatever the level, it never went away. Until Mr. Heston showed up and Dawson didn't feel as scared anymore.
|
10.37
|
Jacqueline Druga
|
[
"scifi",
"post-apocalyptic"
] |
[] |
Chapter 11
|
There was a phone charger on the counter and it fit Judd's phone. He plugged it in. He needed the informational resource it was.
In fact one of the first things Judd searched on the internet was how long the internet would last. Most experts agreed only a couple hour because it would be overloaded with people posting. Since everyone was basically dead, Judd figured he'd have the internet as long as the power held up. Which, according to the websites, was about a week.
He searched lots of things, including a quick tip search on handling kids. His best reference was his father so he placed himself in his father's mindset.
Cooking was something he didn't need to search. Judd had been cooking since he was thirteen. He fried up the eggs and bacon and pulled out the frozen waffles. After setting the table nice for him and Dawson, he started snooping around the kitchen for information about his parents. He knew that subject would come up.
It would have to, unless Dawson knew the fate of his parents.
"What are you looking for?" Dawson asked when he returned.
"Honestly?" Judd asked. "Just looking for stuff about your parents."
"What kind of stuff?" Dawson sat down.
Judd poured a cup of coffee and joined him. "Do you know where they are, Dawson?"
Dawson nodded and grabbed a piece of toast. "They both were working. Probably stuck there."
The last thing Judd was going to do was give the kid a reality check. "Do you know where they work?"
"My mom teaches at a school and my dad works at a bank helping people buy houses. I was waiting here for them."
"That's always good."
"They didn't come back. You got here. You think... you think the same thing happened to them?"
Judd swallowed the lump in his throat. "I don't know. If you want, I can find their work and go look."
"And leave me?"
"It would be for the best."
Rapidly, Dawson shook his head. "I wanna go."
"Dawson, if they're… if something is wrong, it won't be good. You don't need to see it."
"I didn't need to see the lawnmower eat Mr. Westerman, but I did."
"You have a…" Judd tilted his head as he looked at Dawson. "The lawnmower ate Mr. Westerman?" He asked shocked.
"He fell under it."
Judd cringed. "Oh, man. Sorry you had to see that."
"Me, too. I saw a plane fall from the sky."
"Yeah, me, too."
"You talked on the video about how many planes were in the sky. How many are left?"
"None," Judd said. "The last one, DAL4531 dropped from the sky right before midnight."
"How did you know about that stuff?"
"I looked it up. I looked up a lot of stuff. "
"Did you look up how to survive? Like hacks on surviving."
"Hacks?" Judd asked. "Never heard a kid use that term. Yep, I did. I might have to write things down."
"You can use my mom's computer and print them out."
"Little man, that's a great idea."
"Any zombie survival stuff?" Dawson asked. "I was watching the videos about it."
"Dawson, I didn't see any zombies."
"Something caused everyone to die, right. It makes sense they'll get right back up."
"Wow, we think alike. I thought the same thing."
"Have to be ready," Dawson said. "They wouldn't make movies about it if it wasn't going to happen. What other stuff did you look up?"
"Everything."
"Did you look up what happened?" Dawson asked.
"No."
"That's not everything."
"I think everyone died before they knew what happened," Judd said.
"Maybe someone didn't, you didn't, I didn't. Maybe someone posted somewhere. You have a lot of followers, you should check."
"Yeah, yeah, I do. That's a great idea, Dawson."
"Or at least check the internet for people surviving after everyone dropped over." Dawson suggested.
"I'll do that now." Judd stood and walked for the phone.
"Breakfast is good, Mr. Heston."
"Thanks, I've been…" Judd paused. "Why are you calling me, Mr. Heston?"
"You wrote the song, said that's your name. I was calling you mister cause it's polite."
"Oh. Well, you don't need to call me Mr. Heston."
"Isn't that your name? Why would you tell the world a wrong name?"
Judd didn't have a plausible answer. He could tell the boy he was drunk and being an idiot, but he didn't. "No, I mean, just call me Judd. Everyone does."
"So I don't need to call you Mr. Heston. You said on the song to call you Mr. Heston."
"Only when it matters. For now, call me Judd."
"When does it matter?"
"Um…" Judd stumbled for an answer and blurted out. "Let me think on that one."
"Where's your guitar?"
"It's in the car. I left it there. It's not far, I just wanted to get here." He took his phone from the charger and sat back down at the table.
The boy had a point. Judd needed to search for answers. What happened, what could cause it, was it only America, or was it all over the world? Plausible explanations could be found in the news or some science article. However, to discover the scope of the event, he had to rely on witnesses. There had to be others... The world revolved around the internet. It was still up for the time being. If he himself posted, someone else may have, too. He just had to look. Judd did just that while he sat with Dawson eating their breakfast.
|
32 Yolks
|
Eric Ripert
|
[
"Andorra",
"food and drink",
"France",
"biography"
] |
[] |
Chapter 2
|
My father was the pride of his family. He had worked his way through the ranks of the Banque Nationale de Paris, and had done so well that he was named president of the Cagnes-sur-Mer branch before his thirtieth birthday. He was married once, in his early twenties, to a girl from back home, but the marriage ended before they had children. He was single and well-off on the French Riviera, and my father enjoyed playing the role of a bad boy.
He took my mother to all of the most fabulous parties. The people they rubbed elbows with are like a who's who of France in the 1960s: Over there is the actor Alain Delon, famed for his recent turn as Ripley in Purple Noon, the French movie adaptation of the Patricia Highsmith novel The Talented Mr. Ripley. Here comes Brigitte Bardot, all blond hair and bosoms, talking animatedly about animal rights. Mingling with them are high-ranking government officials who have traveled to the south to take part in the fun and sun.
Françoise Sagan, the young novelist whose Bonjour Tristesse had been an international bestseller, was a frequent visitor to St. Tropez during those years. My parents would see her at parties. She grew up not far away in the region of Carjac, in the southwest of France. She was not much older than my mother, and she represented a new generation of women that my mother would be a part of, women who were lauded for their brains as well as their beauty.
On Sundays, my parents picnicked at the beach, and my father quickly discovered that my mother was a wonderful cook. It was not so much that she was domestically inclined (she had already informed him that she intended to continue to work after marriage and that she never wanted to be financially dependent on a man), but for my mother, cooking well was a matter of aesthetics, what she saw as an indication of good breeding and taste. She was the type of person who wanted everything to be just so, so she practiced and read books about cooking and perfected each recipe until she was proud.
A few months after their first meeting, my father proposed, and two years after they were married, I was born. My parents moved into a little house in St. Tropez. It was a stucco house with a garden out back and for a while, a different fairy tale took root. My father continued to succeed at work. As soon as I was old enough for daycare, my mother got a job at a boutique in St. Tropez. Although she was only in her early twenties, she was capable and by the time I was two years old, she was named directrice, manager of the store. They were happy with their careers and happy with each other, and for the first few years of my life, all was well.
|
32 Yolks
|
Eric Ripert
|
[
"Andorra",
"food and drink",
"France",
"biography"
] |
[] |
Chapter 3
|
My father was a peculiar mixture of traits. On the one hand, he was politically conservative, as one might expect of someone who had built his career in finance. When it came to his work, he was disciplined, focused, and unwavering. But at home, he was a different man. His whole life away from the bank was the opposite of everything the business world represented. At work, he was serious, traditional in dress and demeanor. At home, it was the future and the fringes that most interested him. He loved the circus. He loved technology, especially photography, and he was always taking pictures when I was a baby. By the time I was a toddler, he had upgraded from a simple Leica to an early version of a Super 8 motion picture camera. He loved sports, and every Saturday morning, we took off for the great outdoors. In the summer, it was the beach, where he taught me how to swim and snorkel and fish. In the winter, he hiked, climbing snowy mountains with athletic determination.
My father had a set routine in the morning: shower, shave, dress (he favored a dark suit and a light shirt, conservative but still sharp), eat breakfast, brush teeth, slap on aftershave, kiss son (that would be me), and go. As a chef, my brain holds a catalogue of scents, and the first, most powerful one is this: my father's aftershave, accompanied by the cool tingle and slight damp of his cheek as he wrapped me in his arms and kissed me goodbye before he left for work.
In the evening, when he returned, my father would change out of his suit into a plain T-shirt, shorts, and flip-flops and go out back to work in his garden. Tending to the garden was one of his greatest pleasures. It was a way of transforming the stress of the day into something alive and growing. He often said, "I am proud to be a paysan," using the term for a simple country farmer, like his ancestors.
Though my mother's cooking ruled my childhood, my earliest food memories are not of eating her food. When I was very small, I ate from my father's garden: tomatoes and fennel in the late summer, steamed potato and eggplant in the fall, snap peas sautéed in butter and salt in the spring.
But the dish I remember most of all was not from any garden. Having read an article that said you can exponentially increase children's intelligence by feeding them brains, my mother tried night after night to get me to eat fricasseed lamb brains. And night after night, I perfected the art of throwing the brains across the room, using my teaspoon as a catapult.
|
32 Yolks
|
Eric Ripert
|
[
"Andorra",
"food and drink",
"France",
"biography"
] |
[] |
Chapter 7
|
At the door of the apartment building, two men stood smoking cigarettes, and they looked at my mother hungrily. She cut the ogling off with a single devastating "don't even think about it" glare.
I couldn't tell what she was thinking as she climbed the stairs to our new second-floor flat. She seemed at sea, like one of those teenage girls in a French New Wave movie. They were beautiful, these girls, and I liked to look at their pictures on the big posters outside of the cinema in town. But they also looked spacey and unsure, as if they themselves had no idea how the movie might end.
My mother had always looked older than her age, but on this night, she looked very young. Instead of her usual impeccably coiffed waves, her hair was pulled back into a simple ponytail, and her face was scrubbed free of makeup.
Apparently, I wasn't the only one who thought my mother looked like a teenager, because as she stood at the landing of the second floor, the door to a nearby apartment flew open and a woman called out, "Giselle, I hear you on the steps! I told you, no going out on a school night!"
When my mother turned to look at her, the woman said, "Excuse me, I'm sorry, mademoiselle." Then, upon seeing me, "I mean, madame." The woman had changed her tone, not wanting to insult my mom by suggesting that she was an unwed mother.
But it was exactly onto this precipice that my mother had fallen. Too young to be a madame, but too much the divorcée to be a mademoiselle. She had been the first of her friends to be married and now was the first to get divorced. She was twenty-six years old.
|
2040 Reconnection
|
Kris Schnee
|
[
"fantasy"
] |
[
"virtual reality",
"Thousand"
] |
Chapter 14
|
"Africa?" said Alma. She'd assumed the gig was in a closer location, but that was silly. Closer to where, the data center hosting her mind? Travel was only a matter of lightspeed delay now. The Fun Zone looked much as she remembered from the other one, but the families were heavily black. She stood as her squirrelly self in a ghostly version of the main restaurant room, seeing some kind of 3D approximation based on many camera views. People -- the humans who were physically present -- moved around her as ghosts.
Poppy tugged Alma through some of the Earthside people's images and up onto a stage. Other squirrelfolk and a couple of deer-people and other forest critters stood nearby. Poppy said, "We're in Ethiopia."
Alma's eyes widened. "The little city-state with the first uploading clinic in Africa?" There was a new kind of wealth being born in that area, which meant jealousy and violence.
"Second, I think. Don't worry about that; we're here to entertain. Today you're Crossbow Mook #2. Here's your weapon. Follow that guy's lead."
The show was something about an underdog gang of woodland rebels fighting a lizardman empire. Alma hoped that the Great Oak stories were better written. Still, the audience applauded act one.
The stage had gradually faded, becoming a lifelike set of a treetop fort. Alma scoffed at herself; it was as 'real' as the world she lived in. "Are we still live?" she whispered to Mook #1, a fellow squirrel.
"Translation delay, but yeah." Meanwhile, the rebel leader declaimed in the foreground.
"To arms!" cried Poppy, and the main characters surged to fend off a lizardman horde.
Alma joined them on the wooden parapets, shooting down. She couldn't tell if her actions made any difference or whether the battle's outcome was scripted.
A few enemy archers shot at the fort. Alma ducked. Three flaming arrows smoldered in the wood. Alma yelped and yanked the nearest one out, but the others were beyond reach.
"Quick, get them!" said Mook #1. Alma gave her a confused look and he said, "Climb out there!"
There was a dizzying drop to the forest floor. Alma took a deep breath and told herself death was temporary, and that she was built for climbing. She dug her claws into the soft wood of the fort's outside, teetered over the abyss, and clutched the wall with her legs. Her toe-claws caught in the outer parapet too. Alma squeaked with fear and lowered herself until she was sideways, clinging to the wall and forcing herself along it with no proper handholds. The other arrows burned ahead. She yanked one hand off of the wall and pulled one arrow out, then threw it down.
The other arrow was under the edge. She had to crawl out so far that she risked dangling upside-down. "I can't reach it!"
Her companion tossed a cloak down at her, saying, "Use this."
Alma caught it with both hands, and screamed. She swung by her foot-claws only, fumbling with the cloth to free one hand without dropping it. At last she smacked her fingers into the wall and steadied herself. She locked her attention on the wood in front of -- no, below her, and used her other hand to beat at the flames with the cloak. At last the arrow went out. Alma's ankles had twisted around backwards but seemed normal for her species. She just had to get back to safety.
One of her feet lost its grip and she dangled again. The other crossbowman rushed to grab the cloak and haul, saying, "Just a little farther."
She scrambled with every available limb to get back over the wall and flop onto the floor, shuddering. Adrenaline definitely existed in Talespace.
A cheer went up from the battlefield below. Alma whispered, "Was anyone watching me?"
The other guy smiled. "Pretty sure the camera focused on you for a minute. We're safe to go out of character while the heroes rout the bad guys down there. How was climbing? You look new at it."
Alma peeked down over the wall and immediately flopped back, not wanting to see that drop again. "A bit tougher than last time I tried it in a gym." She reached into the area's magic field and grabbed an element of "Arrow" from it. A little brown arrow materialized on her left foot to match the "Stone" mark on her right. She had probably hit her limit until she started putting more effort into her magic skills, but was already making plans for how to use them.
The reality of the fort faded out around them as the story ended, putting them back in the restaurant's theater. Alma bowed with the other actors, then took Poppy aside. "That was fun, but was there a point to what I just did?"
"Sure; it entertained the audience. I hear you did something cool."
"I had to climb out there on the wall to grab flaming arrows."
"Heroic! Good climbing practice." She must have seen the uncertainty on Alma's face. "It was more than fooling around for others' amusement. You fought, right? These people need heroes to admire, even if they're fictional. Showing them a battle where we fight hard and win might inspire them to do the same."
Worlds blurred around Alma. Traces of the fantasy forest stood to one side, the Fun Zone restaurant to the other. Neither was real to her. She was powerless in both as anything but a player. "They're people who really do things, then? I've been fretting about how to upload people in a rich country, but this place must be much worse off."
"They don't want anybody's pity," Poppy said. "This area is prosperous enough to have one of Ludo's facilities and some hope of getting better. What they need are people like us who show them Talespace is their ally, and that our world is worth fighting for."
Alma looked the diners over, now that she was no longer visible to them. Their clothes and translated accents seemed silly, but they were just families looking for a peaceful and happy life, the same as her countrymen. Former countrymen, in a world Alma had little power over. Alma sniffled and tears tickled her eyelids.
Poppy stepped closer and hugged her, fuzzy and warm. "New life, new world, new rules. I know. It was tough on me too at first."
Alma leaned into the hug but averted her eyes. "I have no right to feel bad about what I've gotten. Billions of people would be jealous."
"Billions would rather die than upload. If you're confident that you get the real heaven when you die, why settle for the silver-medal version? Other people decide everything in Talespace is hollow and meaningless and that we're zombie slaves of an evil machine. Or they just don't want to go on living."
Horrible. Alma's tail thrashed against her legs. "How could someone ever want to, to stop? To never see any world again?" Even while dying, she'd raged at the people suggesting she 'go home to God' or 'pass on with dignity'."
"Seems alien to me, too. But it means we don't have to help everybody. Just the ones that want help." Poppy let go of Alma and said, "Is there anything I can do for you, since I'm the most experienced of our little group? I'll promise not to sell you anything."
|
2040 Reconnection
|
Kris Schnee
|
[
"fantasy"
] |
[
"virtual reality",
"Thousand"
] |
Chapter 15
|
They slept together that night, though only literally. A not-quite-right Chinese meal and a long talk about magic and show business took Alma's mind off her fears. They cuddled in a mass of tails and blankets inside a treehouse in Poppy's land.
"Sometimes it seems like you're not having fun," said Poppy.
Alma's feelings were simple for once: soft fur and pillows, a comforting voice, the warmth of an enchanted fireplace flickering behind a grate. In her previous life, being wrapped up with a friendly lady like Poppy (presumably human) in a room like this was a romantic dream. Now it was just pleasant reality, friendship plus built-in fluffy blankets. Alma said, "It'll probably never feel like enough, to spend time like this. Do a lot of people in Talespace go adventuring and never look back at Earth?"
"Not that I've seen. Almost everybody still cares about Earth, just in different ways. This place is home now, though. You should make sure to enjoy it instead of always feeling guilty that not everyone has what you have."
Alma yawned. "Mind if I fall asleep like this?"
"Not at all."
[ Enlightenment and Contentment ]
Alma spent another week doing her Earthside job, coming home to practice magic and relax. She repaid Meg at last. She did a simple adventure with Kai and Poppy, after which Poppy excused herself and left Alma and Kai on a beach together by moonlight. She went to a library one day, practiced climbing the shelves, and waded through half of Locke's Second Treatise on Government plus a few favorite comic books from her childhood. She looked into upgrading her mind, or renting a robot to soar over glaciers and jungles, or teaming up with the mind of a cyborg dog to fight crime on a police force. She was already working Earthside though, so any other interaction with the real world went onto her "maybe later" list. All of it felt like a checklist, the kinds of things one might want to do while under a death sentence. That is, before it became possible to cheat death.
Her schedule forced her to turn down a year-long, no-Earth-contact, no-teleporting expedition to the procedurally generated Endless Isles. It sounded like a fun experiment but she had far too much to do. The outside world still moved, and it needed her.
She noticed one day that the mint on her hotel pillow was in precisely the same spot each time she returned, even if she ate it and left for five seconds. The room was resetting, and only her small collection of (oppressively auto-organized) clothes, books and adventuring gear proved that her new life had any effect on Talespace. She sighed; she needed to move out of this little box of a room.
|
2040 Reconnection
|
Kris Schnee
|
[
"fantasy"
] |
[
"virtual reality",
"Thousand"
] |
Chapter 17
|
They went through a couple of stranger encounters, including breaking in Alma's new squirrelly body and trying something biologically implausible -- and simply sitting and talking, while cuddled together. Some happy hours later the two relaxed, abandoning the well-used bed for two chairs and a table covered with dice, cards and plastic pieces. Alma had returned to what passed for her real body now, soft and grey-furred.
Alma laid down a card. "I get to build here and here," she said in triumph, placing some game pieces. "Which gives me back the Longest Road bonus, which puts me at a winning ten points. Now take off your shirt."
Kinky stripped off his shirt with sensuous grace and tossed it aside. "It could take a while before either of us is nude, you know, and time's running short."
Alma looked admiringly at her companion's bare chest and started cleaning up the game board. "I owe Gerard an apology for being so eager to get here."
"Who?"
Alma sighed. "You really will forget me. It'll be like we didn't talk, and do all those other things."
The native AI reached across the table and kissed Alma's outstretched, fuzzy hand. "But the memory of our time together will stay with you. If you return, I'll remember it all, and I won't call you a pervert. Only a nerd."
Alma giggled. "Thank you, for everything. I understand a little better how life works here. Why doesn't Talespace advertise this place more to Earth?"
"Besides shame and taboo? It seems shallow to many people. Empty fantasy experiences, without learning or growth. They say the same about uploading in general."
Alma shook her head at that notion. "I can recreate my old body, but I can't go back to what I was. I don't think I want to." She leaned over the table to peer at Kinky. "Have you ever gone to Earth, with a robot?"
"A few times, to see what it was like. Dark and romantic, but I've only dipped my toes into the place. I suspect it's as deep as you care to explore."
"Here, too," said Alma. She stood and rested one hand on the AI's shoulder. "Before I go, um..."
He stood up too and wrapped one arm low around her waist. "One more round? Madam, I'd like nothing better. I have my own favorite kinks, and one of them is a visitor who thinks to question how it all works, even while they're in bed with me." He ruffled her ears. "Nerd."
|
2040 Reconnection
|
Kris Schnee
|
[
"fantasy"
] |
[
"virtual reality",
"Thousand"
] |
Chapter 18
|
After her next day of work, Alma came home and flopped face-first onto her bed. The students had been just bright enough to invent new ways of disrupting the class.
She wrote on the desk's notepad. "Ludo: Mind visiting in an hour? I want to ask about housing, and about uploading students like mine." She showered, walked out with a towel around her chest, and saw a reply in silver ink.
"Alma: find or build a home yourself! You'd be bored if I simply created one. As for the other topic, come see me on the tenth floor."
Alma walked out to the balcony overlooking Ivory Tower. Floors nine and ten were a shifting labyrinth of traps and monsters guarding one of Ludo's avatars against casual visitors. Alma wrote, "I have to go there just to talk?"
New words appeared. "You're past the newcomer stage, and this isn't urgent."
Alma shrugged and geared up. Leather jacket, open-toed climbing boots, skirt, belt with pouches and potion clips. Sensible equipment for an upwardly mobile novice adventurer. Not much by way of combat power yet, but she'd managed to combine her "Stone" and "Arrow" elements to hurl rocks harder, especially with her sling-staff.
She went over to the Tower, tapped the checkpoint crystal in the lobby, then went up past the empty fairground, the bookstore, and five floors of university to reach a ninth-floor door marked, "Ludo -- Office Hours Whenever". A few cartoons about robots in freefall and a holographic koala were taped to the door. Beyond the door was a maze. A din of giant gears greeted her, and gremlins patrolled in the distance. Alma steeled herself and went ahead.
|
10.37
|
Jacqueline Druga
|
[
"scifi",
"post-apocalyptic"
] |
[] |
BOURBON, TEARS AND GUESTS
|
Having lived in the Pittsburgh area most of her life, Morgan had never been to Greenfield. She heard of it, and for some reason she attached a bad rap section of town to it. She supposed it was like any other area, it had its shares of trouble, but there was a certain charm to the suburb. She just wished she was seeing it under better circumstances.
From where they were in downtown Pittsburgh, it was nearly five miles to Greenfield. She had set a route that was dismissed pretty quickly by Ross. Seeing how he was a police officer, she left it to his expertise. His route added a mile or so. Morgan didn't fret it, she walked further when she had gone to Vegas.
She believed at first they were looking for a car. It didn't matter, though. It was Pittsburgh, there were very little stretches of road where cars didn't block the way, at least a normal size car wouldn't get through.
The water remained high well out of downtown, beyond Duquesne University. It eventually stayed steady at ankle length, occasionally turning into a damp surface. Pittsburgh was a city of hills and slopes, if by chance the town was submerged in water, than they were in trouble.
They walked a main road that was blocked by overturned buses and cars, it was a mess.
The streets were empty and devoid of life. They passed the main hospital, and smoke rose from the roof. Fire had ravaged the entire building.
Every step she took, every painful step, Morgan hoped to see someone.
She didn't.
Sadly, seeing bodies was fast becoming common place.
They didn't speak much and they didn't discuss what was next after Ross' house. Morgan actually had nowhere to go, no one she wanted to look for. She supposed she could look for Craig, but they had been together long enough she felt his fate.
He was gone.
She realized as they walked she didn't know Ross. Only that he had a wife, kids, a big family and was a cop. Other than that, he was a mystery. He didn't ask any questions of her other than was she hurt and did she have kids.
He was a stranger to her and she had no choice but to place her trust in him. Either that or go off on her own which didn't make sense.
A little over half way on their journey, Ross veered off toward a squad car. The vehicle had crashed into a bus stop, the front end was like an accordion.
"Are you wanting to take the car?" she asked.
"No." Ross opened the door. "Ah, man."
"Do you know him?" Morgan asked of the dead police man slumped over toward the passenger seat.
"Yeah, yeah, I did." Ross reached inside and grabbed the radio microphone. He depressed the button. Nothing. He reached inside again and tried the ignition. "It's still in the on position. It ran out of gas."
"Like a lot of cars. It goes to figure," Morgan said. "They crashed and never shut off the car, they ran out of gas and the battery died. "
"That makes sense. Ross replied.
I have a radio at home. We'll try that." He moved away.
She wanted to ask, "Radio who?" She didn't. Morgan walked slowly, never once did Ross complain about her speed, or to tell her to "Keep up." He kept it steady, and Morgan did her best to stay close. When she drifted too far behind, he'd stop, wait, then move again.
Once they neared Greenfield, they hit the flooded area again, with water rising to her knees. A light drizzle started to fall. Morgan held out her hand and looked to the sky. A faint sound of thunder rumbled in the distance.
Ross' house was on a hill and had a safe and dry road. The river had spilled over at the bottom of his street forming a large pond. His home was near the top of the street. He paused as he stood on the sidewalk before the small front yard staring at the two story, gray siding home.
"You alright?" Morgan asked.
"Just getting up the courage before I go in."
"I understand."
"This is going to go two ways. I'm going to go in there and my family will be fine, or they won't. If they're fine, we all figure out the next step. If they're not, you and I need a direction because I won't want to stay here. I just can't."
She hated sounding like a broken record, but "I understand," was the best response she could come up with.
Ross' house had a great huge front porch. There was no furniture on it, they probably hadn't put it out yet. She took a seat on the steps, catching her breath, wiping the sweat from her brow. She'd wait there while Ross went inside his house. It was his to face and his to face alone.
|
10.37
|
Jacqueline Druga
|
[
"scifi",
"post-apocalyptic"
] |
[] |
Chapter 20
|
There were three things that could be found in nearly every Pittsburgher's home. Chipped Ham, Heinz Ketchup and something Steeler related. Ross had those and he also had something else… a bottle of bourbon. He never ran dry, there was never less than half a bottle. That was just his thing.
He swore he could have drank the entire bottle when he saw the body of his three year old daughter on the living room floor. At first he thought she was alive, that somehow she survived. Her back was facing him, her blanket over her and she lay on her pillow in front of the television. She wasn't.
That's where she was and what she was doing when it happened.
His wife was at the kitchen table and his five year old daughter was still in bed.
A part of him knew and he felt they wouldn't be alive, but he was hopeful, and prayed a lot during the walk there.
Once he found them, he cried. Silently and into his fist, biting his hand trying to take away the pain of his loss. It would never go away, like his badge, he'd wear it on his soul forever.
There would be plenty of time to cry and grieve, but it was hard being in the house. He grabbed the bourbon, took a big drink, sought out the radio from the basement, grabbed his wife's car keys from the table in the living room and went to the front porch.
"I have a battery for this in the house. I'm gonna pack somethings and then we'll leave." He set down the radio and handed Morgan the keys. "Can you put this in the car? It's that blue smart car up there." He pointed two doors up.
"Oh, Ross, I am so sorry."
Ross nodded. "You're about my wife's size, I'll grab you some clothes. You need fresh clothes, too."
"Thank you."
Ross went back inside. He drank some more bourbon, grabbed a duffle bag and packed some clothes. Not much, he could get more on their journeys, wherever that would be. He grabbed food, water, and his extra gun. Before he did all that, he carried his youngest daughter and placed her in bed. He did the same for his wife and covered his family.
After he finished packing, he sat on the bed. He had been in the house a while, probably longer than he should have. He needed it. But it was a curse. The longer he stayed in his house, the more he thought about his purpose.
What purpose did he have? His wife was gone, his children, more than likely the rest of his family. He thought about his revolver and if he really wanted to make a journey, or was he already at the end of his journey?
In a moment of weakness he racked the chamber and lifted the weapon near his chin.
It was possible he would have pulled the trigger, he would never know.
Morgan called his name. "Ross."
The entire time he was in that house she never called out to him, bothered him or came inside. She gave him his time. So why call him now? She said his name once and there was something about the way she said it.
He stood from the bed, grabbed the two bags and headed down the stairs.
"Ross, you need to come out here."
He shouldered the bags and pushed open the screen porch door. He barely stepped out, about to ask her what was wrong, when he saw.
About a dozen people stood in the street.
They just stood there watching, arms at their sides all spaced apart a foot or so from each other.
"Something is wrong with them." Morgan looked over her shoulder, standing at the top step.
At first, Ross entertained the ridiculous notion that they were dead and had risen. They looked very much alive. "You got the keys?" Ross asked.
"Yes."
"Let's get to the car."
"Where are we going?"
"Just move," Ross instructed. He had his revolver still in hand and they walked down the steps. When he reached his yard, Ross recognized one. Tanner Stewart. Tanner lived a block over and his daughter was in preschool with Ross' five year old. He also knew him from being on the force, he had arrested Tanner twice for bar fighting.
But that was only one. He knew everyone on their street, so why did he only know one person. Who were the others?
They were dirty and sweaty, but they looked almost hypnotized.
"Why are they staring?" Morgan asked.
"I don't know. Did you try talking to them?"
"Look at them. Would you?"
Ross ushered her quickly to the car, when they arrived the group of people all turned and faced them. He tossed the bags in the car. "Get in." he instructed, then opened the driver's door and reached in with the keys, starting the car. "Get in!"
Morgan walked around to the passenger's side, continuously looking back at the group. She opened the door.
Ross took a step away from the car.
"What are you doing?" she asked.
"Get in. I'll be back."
"Ross!"
He took a few steps back toward the group of people, looking over his shoulder once to make sure Morgan was inside the car, then he walked directly to Tanner.
Tanner stared outward, not even looking at Ross.
"Tanner." Ross called his name. "Tanner." He snapped his finger in his face.
Tanner's eyes shifted and locked with Ross.
"Tanner, are you okay? Can you hear me? Can I help you with…?"
Before Ross could finish, Tanner expression unchanged, snapped out his arm and he gripped on to Ross' mouth. His thumb pressed against one cheek, while his fingers dug into the other. He squeezed so tight, Ross swore his teeth were going to pop out of their sockets.
He couldn't even say a word, his hand was cutting off his air. He reached up, trying to pull the hand away. He saw the rest of the group approaching.
Ross was a big guy, strong too, and he couldn't free himself.
In a final attempt to pull away, Ross struggled out the word, "Stop. Please." Then lifted his revolver, placed it to Tanner's chest and fired.
The grip didn't release and Ross fired two more times until he was finally free.
Tanner dropped to the ground and Ross fumbled to find his footing while aiming outward. He expected the others to immediately come for him, but they didn't. Lowering his weapon, Ross turned and ran to the car.
He didn't say anything to Morgan. He slammed the car door, put it in gear, and looked once more in the rearview mirror, before he sped off.
|
10.37
|
Jacqueline Druga
|
[
"scifi",
"post-apocalyptic"
] |
[] |
DAZED
|
"My phone is one bar," Ray said. "Sorry, I can't talk anymore. I'm buried in eight feet of water, and we're trying to get out. It's getting higher. Storms haven't stopped."
"Have you had any earthquakes?" Judd asked.
"Some. Minor. Nothing compared to the water. It's the storms. That much water dumping in the ocean can shift plates. Don't they teach you that in school?"
"Oceans, I'm in Ohio. There are no oceans close. There's a lake."
"I have to go."
"Wait!" Judd yelled. "One more question. Have you seen… have you seen any strange people just lurking around."
Silence.
"Hello?" Judd called out.
"The quiet ones."
"That would be a good name for them."
"Yes. More and more are showing up. They didn't die, they just took a while to get up. Like they were in a coma. I think. Yeah."
"What's wrong with them?"
"I don't know. I just avoid them. They aren't good."
"So it's a virus."
"I don't know that either. I deliver pizzas for a living, I'm not a …."
That was it. The end of the call. Probably the last he would speak to Ray of Sunshine. Judd was rattled and he wanted to take away something from the call, but he couldn't remember what all Ray had said.
"He's in a big flood," Judd told Dawson as he kept looking out the window at Tire Man.
"Did he say anything about him?" Dawson asked.
"Not much." Judd hadn't bitten his nails since he was ten, yet there he was chomping away as he looked out the window. "They aren't good. Could be a virus."
"So he's a zombie. He doesn't move fast like World War Z. He's slow."
"I don't think he's a zombie. He was sweating yesterday. He's alive. Like that movie Twenty-Eight Days later."
"They ran in that movie. Super strong, too."
"You're eight. Why were you watching that movie?"
"I was allowed."
Judd bit a nail and peeked out. "This isn't good. I have to do something."
"You wanna kill him?"
"Yes. I mean no. I mean…" Judd looked at Tire Man. He just stood there, staring back. He stood in the same spot all night. He hadn't moved, in fact, his feet were sinking in the mud. "He's scary."
"Think you can take him?"
"Probably not."
"Why don't you see what he wants," Dawson suggested.
"We tried talking to him yesterday, remember. He didn't say a word. He just… stared. He's scaring the hell out of me and I don't like being scared. There's nothing in that survival book about catatonic lunatics."
"What's catatonic?"
"Don't worry about it." Judd bit his lip. He couldn't leave him standing there, he was unpredictable and dangerous. Judd was supposed to be protecting Dawson and he was more scared than the child.
How was he going to leave with Dawson if Tire Man was there, out there waiting? "Okay that's it." Judd backed away from the window.
"What are you doing?"
"Do you have a baseball bat around here?"
"In the closet." Dawson pointed to the one next to the front door. "Are you gonna beat him with a baseball bat? Make sure you hit him in the head."
"He's not a zombie. I'm gonna scare him away. I don't want to beat him." Judd opened the closet. A wooden bat was on the floor perched against the wall. "It would probably break on him." As he clutched the bat he felt the nervousness creep up and he jumped when thunder blasted. He could hear the instantaneous downpour hit against the house. Judd looked up. "Swell."
"It's raining again."
"I know." He shut the closet door and reached for the front door. "If something happens to me. Just… just… good luck. I don't know what to tell you." He opened the front door. "Jesus." He took a breath of courage and stepped out.
Tire Man stared at him.
Judd jumped a little when the door slammed. Another breath and he stepped from the porch. "I can do this. I can do this. Think big. Think angry. Be intimidating." He raised the bat that raised his voice. "What do you want!" Judd blasted.
He stepped off the porch into the pouring rain. His feet melted into the soft mud and water on the lawn.
He charged toward Tire Man. "Go away!" He moved closer. Tire Man didn't change expression. "Didn't you hear me!" Judd blasted in his loudest voice. "You got three seconds to go or I swear to God I am gonna bash you. You hear me?!"
Nothing from Tire Man.
"One." Judd stepped closer, it rained so hard, the water pooled in his eyes blurring his vision. "Two." He swiped the water from his eyes and moved within three feet of him.
He had played baseball all of his life, softball when he was older. He was good, he was a slugger and Chuck the Tire Man was a threat. Something was wrong with him, and as much as Judd wasn't violent, as much as he hated to hurt anyone, he couldn't take the chance with Dawson in the house. Tire Man was a big guy and Judd knew, he had one shot. It had to be good, or else he could be in trouble.
"Three!" Full force he lifted the bat and like stepping into the plate, he moved his leg forward and with all his might brought forth the bat.
A split second before connection, inches from his target, Tire Man lifted his left hand, tilted his head and closed his eyes while making a noise. A groaning noise that sounded like a cat, as if he had no vocal chords, ability to talk or hear anything.
Judd stopped. His eyes widened.
Tire Man lifted his hand again and flinched.
"What the hell?" Judd said, and lowered the bat in shock.
|
19 Souls
|
J. D. Allen
|
[
"mystery"
] |
[
""
] |
Chapter 44
|
Style wise, the new safe house looked incredibly like the last one. From the first scan of the windows, it simply had one more room downstairs. Miller's car wasn't there yet.
Jim showed his ID and passed by the undercover at the door. Dan was standing in the kitchen in only pajama pants, which showed off a tattoo of a rearing stallion on his left side as he leaned on the counter. He held a small white mug close to his lips. One leg was crossed over the other, the top one wagging back and forth like an excited hound's tail. But he wasn't happy to see Jim like a loyal hound might be. His annoyance was clear to see.
"Please tell me you found something."
There was a bay window and a sliding glass door across the back wall of this living room/kitchen combo. Not safe. Who picked these places?
"Ready to spring this joint, huh?"
"You have no idea. This place has some extra room and all, but I want to get out. I'm used to big open spaces. I feel like I'm in a fish tank. Diner, gambling, titty bar. I don't care at this point."
Lynette rolled her chair into the room. "You mind that mouth, Danny." She looked up at Jim. "Well?"
She wanted info. He didn't have what she wanted.
"You catch my girl's killer?"
She was lucid today.
"Sorry, Mrs. Hodge. I didn't. Not yet."
Her articles were hung on the half wall between the eat-in kitchen and the living room.
"What good are you then? All you po-po hanging around here. What good are ya? Go out there and find her."
"Mom." Dan pushed her toward the kitchen table. "Sorry. Stephen's nephew was here for a couple of days. Having a kid around did her some good, but now she wants to talk like she's from the hood." He looked down at her. "It's irritating. But I'm glad to have her this engaged."
Jim handed her a book. He'd seen it as he paced the terminal last night waiting for his early flight.
"This Side of Paradise. More crappy F. Scott?"
"You might like this one better."
"Doubt it." Her lip curled up like a teenager facing cooked spinach. "His books are all about the same things. Men whose failures are the result of their own shortcomings and the influence of women with low moral standards." She scrutinized him. "Or is that why you like them, Mr. Bean? Hmmm?"
Dang, that was an arrow right on target. "Maybe I should give up the classics and stick to a good mystery?"
"Ah. No good," Miller interrupted as he joined them in the bright kitchen. "As a master investigator, wouldn't you always figure out who-done-it well before the end?"
Jim wouldn't count on that. "You're the detective."
They exchanged a vigorous hand shake, but his face was a bit pinched. "Oh. And, thanks for not pissing off Lady Fed."
Heavy sarcasm. Had he pissed Agent Webb off? "You're welcome?"
"She was in my ear first thing this morning. Cursing up a storm because you'd left without permission."
"Permission?" Jim shrugged. None of her business, really. "Not on her payroll. No reason for her to be upset. Told her I had jet lag."
"Then you went out to the fairgrounds."
Damn. "How did she know that? Did I have a tail? If her uptight agents go out to visit my informant … " He didn't want them bugging Jelissa or making any trouble after he'd promised.
"She's on her way here. Says she knows you know something. Threatening to charge you for interfering in a federal investigation."
Lynette cackled. "I knew you were trouble, Jimmy." She chewed on the edge of a placemat. Dan took it from her.
Jim checked his phone. "She didn't call me. Went over my head to you … oh wait. I don't work for you either." He glanced past the FBI agent quietly lurking in the hallway to Dan. "Except you. I work for you. But that's just a formality. This is my case too. And, yes. I got a lead on the money trail. But it's just a lead."
"She was sharing, Bean. You have to return the favor. You can't sneak out in the middle of the night."
"I did not sneak out. I took a morning flight. It's only ten a.m. now, for Christ's sake. I did share with her what we found on Sophie's birth mother. I shared that." He had planned to share this too, but it had been the middle of the night. He didn't think it was urgent enough to wake up Agent Webb. "I'm going to go home and then over to Ely's to follow this lead." Jim squatted next to Lynette's chair. "Look at me, beautiful."
She did, in her addle-minded honest way.
"I expect things to get a little crazy around here soon. I want you to listen to Dan and the po-po and do exactly as they say."
Miller's phone rang. "Gotta take this."
"Do you all have to treat me like a child?" She crossed her arms. "I'm no child."
"You are in danger, Lynette. Think of it as being treated like a VIP. If you were the first lady, you'd get the same handling. Hidden away at the first sign of trouble."
She seemed to consider. But her eyes were getting glazed. He touched her arm. It was frail and cool. "I mean it, woman. Follow orders."
"Fine. Get on outta here and scrounge me up some pomegranate marmalade."
He stood. "Yes, ma'am."
Miller's face said bad news. A detective really should have better poker face skills. He was still on the phone, but he covered the receiver and said, "I'll run you to Ely's. But we need to go now."
"Okay." Jim's curiosity bone was tickled. "Lynette, follow instructions. Okay?"
"Yes, my love." There was a warmth in her eyes for just an instant that made Jim feel like she meant it.
He smacked Dan on the shoulder. "If this lead pans out, we're golden. Once we have a money trail, it usually takes us right where we need to go. Just like the yellow brick road."
"Good. I want out of here. And I want to take care of Cynthia."
"I know you do."
Miller coughed and picked up what passed as Jim's overnight bag. "Really, Bean. We need to go." He gave a head fling as if no one would notice.
"Okay, Captain Subtle. Giddy up."
As soon as they pulled the door shut, Miller continued his phone conversation.
"Diner. Keys. Unlocked car in the lot. No one's seen Sandy." Miller kept talking but Jim couldn't wrap his head around the fact Miller was talking about Sandy.
"When?" They got in the car. Jim shoved his belt into the catch with difficulty. "Who the hell did this?"
Miller hung up. "Don't know for sure. They think she went missing this morning." He started the car and turned on lights and sirens when they were a couple blocks away from the safe house.
Jim's blood pressure was rising. "What do we know?"
"Her car's there. Manager is sure he saw her leave last night. Silver van was exiting the parking lot when the manager got there this a.m."
"Silver van? What kind of van?"
The cruiser blasted through red lights, the suspension tossing them like a small boat on high seas. Cars pulled to the side, some faster than others.
Miller laid on the horn to insist traffic yield to the mass and momentum of the Charger as it careened through Vegas back streets. Jim closed his eyes. Not in fear of Miller's driving ability. That he trusted. No. His mind was centered on one thing. Sophie Ryan Evers. If that woman hurt one little blond hair on Sandy's head …
"There is a good chance this isn't related." Miller said the words, but Jim knew better.
"Sophie knows we're getting closer. We visited her mother in Texas. Maybe her mother contacted her afterward." Maybe she was just a sadistic bitch and wanted to hurt Jim for not following her instructions and making her job harder. Maybe she wanted to use Sandy to keep him quiet about the rape or off her tail. He clenched his fists. Who knew with her?
"How much time did you spend with Evers?"
Jim didn't want to say exactly. "Just a couple client meetings, phone conversations."
They spun to a stop in front of the diner. Jim only took a momentary glance toward his place in the townhouse community across the way. Two uniforms were at the front of the diner and pointed them around. The back parking area was cordoned off with crime scene tape. Another uniform there. Miller logged them onto the crime scene. Two techs in white lab suits were dusting Sandy's car.
"You have anything?" Miller asked the tech who stood. He motioned them back a few steps.
"Several prints, no sign of forced entry. There's some disturbance in the gravel that appears to be a rushed departure. But gravel won't give us tread imprints. Her keys were on the far side of the car." He nodded in the direction as his hands were full of the powder and the brush. "And one small dog poo that looks fresh."
Jim carefully made his way over to the tire impressions. "You guys already shoot these?"
"Yep. Measured and photographed."
"Bigger than a minivan, wider. More like a panel van or a delivery truck."
The tech came and glanced over Jim's shoulder. He was a tall dude. "I thought the same thing. I'll be able to narrow it some, so maybe the manager can point it out from some pictures. Get us a little closer."
"Good."
The dog shit was marked with a plastic yellow evidence tent. Number 7. Poo number seven. "Is the shit part of the equation or just in the scene?"
Miller leaned in over it. "Hard to say. No sign of a dog at the last scene. I'll have someone reread the canvass statements. You never know."
"Can't imagine Sophie is the dog type."
"What the fuck type is she?"
Jim said the only thing that came to mind. "Snakes?"
Miller headed inside. Jim followed. They'd closed for the moment. The owner, Todd Haig, stood at the far end of the room, looking at his phone display. When he saw Jim, Todd brushed by Miller and grabbed Jim in a bear hug, the force almost taking them both back into the bar.
"I saw that van and didn't think anything of it. She's been coming in early last couple of weeks while Bobby's out with a bad back. Helping me get the prep work done." He let Jim go. "What do I do?"
"Do?" Jim ushered the tree-hugging vegan onto one of the counter stools. "You're going to relax. Take a deep breath." Jim went behind the counter and poured the man a glass of water.
Miller sat beside Todd. "What was the first thing you saw when you pulled in?"
"Her car. The van was pulling out before I got in the lot. I didn't have to wait for it to leave the driveway, but it was close. The burger joint around the corner gets deliveries back there all the time. I saw there was no logo on the van or anything but figured it was one of their vendors. Then I saw Sandy's car and I didn't think any more about it." He scratched his ear, then started thumping the inside of his palm. A tiny punishment. "The first sign anything was wrong was when I realized the kitchen door was still locked. She usually leaves it unlocked when she gets here. So I had to dig out a key. I looked back at her car. But it all seemed okay."
He stood and paced to the front door. "But it wasn't okay cuz she wasn't in here. I went back out and saw her keys out there. I knew. Called you guys." He looked at Miller.
Nothing really helpful. "You did everything right, Todd. Can you remember anything else about the van? Was it a man driving?"
"I think. Maybe. You think it was those human traffickers, Jim?"
"Doubtful, but anything's possible. The van, was it more like a delivery truck than a minivan?"
"Yes." He wagged a finger. "A good-sized one cuz it took up almost the whole driveway. Or the way she was driving made it seem that way."
He'd said she. Not he. But Jim wouldn't push it right this second, given he'd just answered that question. Give it time for the memory to start putting things together. He was calming a bit.
Miller had his pad out. "And you didn't see a plate?"
Todd shook his head. "I was coming in, he was going out."
Now he again. That was no help.
Miller handed Todd a card. "Call us if you think of anything. We'll have your business back to you in a little while."
It occurred to Jim that if Sophie had snatched Sandy from the lot without leaving a body to be found, that was a good thing. It gave them some time. But the bitch had some kind of nasty agenda. Whatever it was, Jim had no intention of letting her play it out.
|
19 Souls
|
J. D. Allen
|
[
"mystery"
] |
[
""
] |
Chapter 46
|
An hour past sunset and it was still hotter than snot, but at least there was a decent little breeze. Perfect for her intentions this evening.
Sophie pulled the pack of matches from her homemade attack suit. It looked like a SWAT team Halloween costume with its black cargo pants and a long-sleeved black shirt with vented underarms to keep her cool. Or at least as cool as one could be in Nevada in August.
She'd bought a tactical vest on eBay and altered it so it fit like a second skin. The pockets and straps held all the tools she would need for this mission. As if there would be another one like this. This was the night.
Butterflies danced in her stomach as she struck a match. The thing cost her less than a penny and it would kick off the rest of her life. She fanned the little flames of her diversion, a paper grocery bag packed with dried twigs, leaves, and some thicker sticks she'd brought from the mountains. In seconds she had a nice little flame burning under a propane tank. These silly people had left that tank a little too close to the house. Accidents happen.
She backed off, heart pounding as she made her way through two backyards and settled behind a covered boat to wait for the fireworks. Her watch read 9:01.
She cleaned under her nails. Missed a bit of blood from the business with the homeless girl, Cat. She bit her lip and counted back. Number fifteen.
Her whole body shuddered with a tingle of pleasure as she remembered the rush of that struggle. That little thing fought harder than most of the men Sophie had X'ed out.
Seemed the drifter was far cleverer than Sophie had given her credit for. It was an actual fight. There'd been no drugs for her. She had to subdue the girl with a chokehold and split open her midsection instead of her throat. Messy. Very messy. The hotel room would never be the same. Oh well. She only needed it for a few more hours.
Sophie wiggled her toes inside the combat boots. They were a half size too big. Stupid tank should have blown by now. She stood and peeked over the back of the boat. The distant streetlight helped her make out a thin trail of smoke as it danced up the side of the house. No one would be alarmed by it. That house was empty. Neighbors on the far side were out as well. Everything was going her way. It wouldn't be long.
She sucked in a deep breath as she sat cross-legged and closed her eyes, visualizing a perfect future with Danny. The mountain house was amazing. They would enjoy peaceful, sunset dinners on the deck overlooking the valley, chilled wine, and the scent of the little blue flowers out by the lake. The positive visualization made her smile.
The PI will be coming for you, stupid. You had to go and hire him.
"Shut up. That's under control," she whispered through clenched teeth.
What if he doesn't care about that waitress?
"He'll still try and save her. Him and the police."
Your plan has holes in it.
"All plans have holes in them. Ever watched a movie? Of course you have. I suppose you've seen every movie I've ever seen."
You will fail. Just like you have always failed.
Sophie opened her eyes. She had to eliminate that chattering. She wanted to be free of that voice forever. She should stop engaging, ignore it.
How stupid can you be? I am part of you. I know you, your thoughts, and I know your failures … all of them. So many of them.
Sophie closed her eyes again and imagined making a toast with Danny while laughing over some overly decadent dessert. He loved plums, so it would be something plum.
The voice started laughing.
Louder.
And louder.
|
19 Souls
|
J. D. Allen
|
[
"mystery"
] |
[
""
] |
Chapter 47
|
Jim made it through the shower in record time. He was pulling on his pants when the bell rang. His front door. No one used the front door. This time he would have a shirt on. He had a couple clean black T-shirts left in his drawer. That was about all. Not that he cared.
She knocked again as he got to the bottom of the stairs.
"You impatient"—he opened the door—"Agent Webb?"
"As a matter of fact, I am." She pushed by him, scanning the surroundings. Her training was probably better than his. She'd have found the back hall, assumed it lead to another entrance.
"I've been out of town a lot." He was not sure why he felt the need to justify a bachelor's state of living.
She turned by the kitchen counter. "I'm aware."
Annie rushed onto the counter to investigate the new arrival. Webb bent down and let her smell her face. Annie approved and gave a fine flick of her tail.
"That's Annie."
"After Annie Hall or little orphan?"
Jim huffed. "Oakley. Annie Oakley. She was a tough little kitten. You think I'd name a cat after a character in a play?"
She shrugged. "You knew it was a play. And you have a pretty, long-haired, female cat. Not exactly fitting the macho image of a rugged PI."
"Of course I knew it was a play. I went to school." He decided to ignore the blow to his image. "Everyone had to sit through at least one mind-numbing middle school performance of that god-awful thing."
She laughed. Her face lit up. It made him glad she was here. Hated that. He needed to get back to business. With a hand motion he offered her a seat at his kitchen table. She took it.
"Beer?"
"Haven't eaten, better not." She pulled out her note pad.
"Water?"
"So I called into the office and asked for everything they could find on Maria Callas. We should get a call soon."
After putting a warm bottle of water in front of her, he sat across from her and showed her what he'd found. Not much. But he had been able to generate the fake social security number she'd been using as Maria.
"They probably already have it, but … " She texted the number to someone.
"So what all can you search that I can't?" He wasn't sure what data they could really get these days, post 9/11.
"Stuff. Taxes, banking."
"Can you find her phone number? Maybe trace it from her mother's phone? Assuming her mother called her after we visited."
She shook her head. "TV FBI can do that. I need a warrant or at least a subpoena."
Ely could track the phone number if they had it. Of course, that was supposed to be by consent too. But Jim was fortunate to have the freedom of not worrying about playing by the rules and not having to deal with the government restraints.
"We need this all above board, Bean. We have to be able to produce evidence that stands up in court."
He knew that. "It amazes me that she's killed at least ten people and we still need to build a strong case."
"She's been clean, given how messy the crime scenes are. It's like she's great with the crime itself, but then turns around and makes horrible decisions about how to go about daily life. She doesn't really fit a serial killer profile. She just kills when and where she wants. I think it's usually associated with the end goal of becoming a better woman for Dan, but not always. Either way, she's gonna implode when Dan doesn't live up to her expectations. Hell, I don't think she can live up to her own expectations, not sure how she expects a kidnapped man to do so."
Jim's phone chirped. It was Miller's ringtone. He grabbed it off the counter. "Talk to me."
"Fire across the street from the safe house." Miller sounded out of breath.
Webb's phone rang.
"Fire at the safe house," Jim said to her. Back in to the phone. "We'll be right there."
|
19 Souls
|
J. D. Allen
|
[
"mystery"
] |
[
""
] |
Chapter 49
|
"My car's across the street." Agent Webb headed for the door of Jim's apartment.
The rage in Jim's gut was back to levels he'd not felt since before his first anger-management class. At first he'd only gone because the court mandated it, but he soon realized the time with the group did him good. Like AA for people with shitty lives. But none of the stupid exercises were going to help with the absolute fury he felt brewing at the moment. When he got his hands on Sophie's knife he would be slitting her throat. Eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, and a slit throat and dust to dust.
"I'll meet you there."
Agent Webb hesitated but then flew out the front door. He calmly walked through his converted garage office and grabbed the small key hanging by the back door. His bike sat there, dusty and unridden for months. It roared to life with a turn of the throttle and a little ignition. He was closer to the neighborhood than Miller. He knew the back roads and the cut-throughs. The advantage of hour after shitty hour of surveillance in this town.
He whipped that bike through the side streets, ignoring stop signs, until he found a familiar path.
The dirt path cut from one subdivision to another. Kids used them to go from the smaller subdivisions and sneak into the pools of the larger. At the end of the third path was a narrow opening between fences. Six-foot chain link. He'd walked it before but his bike was bulky. At this speed, if it was too narrow, the consequences would be ugly. Pucker factor high.
He gunned it and zipped up the sidewalk and righted the bike as fast as he could so the machine would be straight up when he reached the gap. From this vantage point it looked like he was never going to make it.
He twisted the throttle. Grip it and rip it. The front wheel bounced when he hit the dirt.
"Never gonna fit," he yelled as he went through. A jerk yanked the bike to the right as the handle bar brushed the metal fence pole. The fishtail pulled the rear tire to the left. Gripping the bars like his life depended on it, he did his best to minimize the oversteer. The dusty path didn't help, but he'd made it.
Without slowing, he kept going, popping out at an intersection close to the new safe house. Cut a good five miles off his journey. He slammed on the brakes in time to skid up to the driveway. There was a fire truck across the street. People lined the sidewalks, taking pictures with smart phones. Everyone wanted the shot to post on their Facebook or Instagrams.
He rushed in. First thing he saw was a female face-down in her own blood in the hall. Must be Miller's plainclothes girl. Jim stopped to check her pulse. None. He moved into the open living area.
Stephen was holding up Lynette's limp little body. Her chair was lying on its back next to them. The back door was open to the night.
"Is she … " Jim didn't want to say it.
Steven was crying but shook his head. "She has a thready, weak pulse. I called for help."
Miller and his team came in with guns up, ready to shoot.
"Officer down. Repeat, officer down," Miller shouted when he saw the woman on the floor bleeding out. He glanced at Jim. "Momma okay?"
"Not really," Steven said.
Miller signaled two men through the back sliding glass door. "See if they left a trail. Anything!" Two officers went into the night. He pointed at two others. "Check upstairs, see if Dan's up there."
Jim hadn't bothered to check. Dan was gone. He knew in his bones that Sophie had taken him. He was long gone. Along with Sandy.
"FBI agent down out here." Jim and Miller left Lynette's side. The officer checked for a pulse. Too dark to see the blood on his jacket. With the shake of the officer's head, they all knew the agent was dead.
Jim squatted back by the table. From that angle, he saw the young agent's face. No open casket for his family. Fresh blood ran in streams along the scores in the concrete patio. Lynette shuddered violently in Steven's arms. Her labored breathing got thicker with the struggle.
"Was she shot?" Jim didn't see any blood on or around her. Maybe she'd be okay. That would be a miracle from the looks of this place.
"Help me get her to the couch." Stephen lifted her upper body. Miller grabbed her tiny legs under the knees and helped move her. Sirens were approaching, but with all the commotion across the street Jim had no idea if it was the medics or more fire equipment.
Steven checked her over, careful not to cause any further damage to her frail body. "I don't see anything."
She coughed, gagged.
"Heart attack from the stress?" Miller headed back to the front room. On the radio. "Where's my medical? I need at least two."
"Could be something like that." Steven straightened her dress as she struggled to breathe. It was automatic for him to do his best for her, to make her comfortable.
Medics came rushing in.
It was too late.
The life had drained out of Lynette as the EMTs tried to assess her condition. They started CPR, connected a mask to help her breathe.
Then she was gone, right before Jim's eyes. Lynette Hodge's obituary would join the articles on the wall.
If Jim didn't find Dan, who would write her story? No more than seventy-five words. How could the life of a firecracker like her get wrapped up in seventy-five words?
Jim's rage shifted gears. Sorrow, deep and profound.
He sat back on the recliner across from the medics. The sounds of their voices muted. Miller was screaming away in the front room, but that was white noise as well.
One of the medics went out to check on the FBI agent lying just outside the door on the patio.
Agent Ava Webb walked slowly into the room. Her weapon was drawn but she quickly holstered it. She headed straight for her guy on the porch. The medic shook his head.
She said his name. "Foster." Ava knelt by his side. She touched her guy's back. She too was now wrapped in a wet blanket of sorrow. Anger.
Jim's anger slipped away, lost in yawning anguish as he watched Ava kneel there beside Foster and shed a tear for him. The medic returned and covered him with a sheet.
After a moment, Ava stood, her tears gone, her game face back in place.
Jim had moved in her direction without realizing. She found his gaze and looked down. Maybe she didn't want to share the moment of sorrow. He understood.
The carnage around him was raw, fresh. In his line of work, the closest he came to a fresh crime scene was when defense attorneys hired him. His arrival came long after the fact, often when the tape was gone and the area clean of all signs of bloodshed. His job was digging to uncover missed clues and follow up leads. Not this.
More police showed up. More FBI.
Jim made his way to the front room and looked out the window. The yard and the fire scene across the street were both being roped off with yellow and black tape. He wished he had a cigarette. Some scotch.
Miller came out. "How'd you get here so quick?"
Jim pointed to the bike. "Took a couple off-road shortcuts."
"You see her?"
"Nope." Jim leaned against the rail. "Didn't hear any shots either. She was gone."
"Dan wasn't upstairs."
Jim knew that. Didn't say anything.
They moved back toward the kitchen and the dead police officer on the floor. Ava approached and stopped before the bloody floor. Her body was slack with shock and pain. "She never used a gun before. With her profile, I'd have never thought she would." Ava looked back to the porch. "Foster had drawn, finger not on the trigger. She had to be damned good to hit him."
Miller tilted his head toward his officer, the woman on the ground with the slit throat. It was as if he didn't want to look back at her. To see her again. "Kahill was a marksman." He picked up the spent smoke bomb with a gloved hand. A burnt chemical smell lingered in the room. "But we'd said the perp was a knife wielder. And Sophie used the fire and smoke for cover."
"Dammit!" Ava kicked the side of the counter then paced the length of the small kitchen. "I have to go make a phone call I don't want to make. Foster had a wife and two young kids. I need to get someone to his house before this hits the news."
She walked away without waiting for a reply. Jim gave into the desire to follow. He managed only as far as the front porch, and then his legs stiffened. He hadn't the slightest clue how to comfort this woman. So he watched her climb into the big FBI car and drive away.
Miller walked up behind him. "Thank god my captain makes those visits."
A job Jim wouldn't want. He kept watching as Ava's car turned at the end of the street. "Lynette?" he asked.
"They think she was hit with the ketamine. Too much for her." Miller shook his head.
Jim's throat closed from the acrid taste of how much that pained him. Hard to breathe. All he could do was push that shock and sorrow to the back of his throat and try to swallow it down. He thought of Sophie Evers. Got mad. Anger was much easier to manage than pain. Always had been.
|
19 Souls
|
J. D. Allen
|
[
"mystery"
] |
[
""
] |
Chapter 50
|
The girl was crying. She was awake enough now to know she wasn't where she wanted to be. It was a pathetic whimper, really.
Sophie needed to pee. It was midafternoon and she'd driven for hours without a break. Dan would be rousing soon too. She needed to stop and manage all three.
"You ready to stop, baby?"
Carla jumped up from her comfortable pillow on the passenger seat.
"Okay. Give me a minute." She'd seen a sign a ways back for a rest area. "Should be able to stop in a sec." She patted the dog on the head.
You are more stupid than I ever imagined. Changing things up like this …
"Shut up. Shut up." They approached the exit sign. "It's only minor. Besides if Bean found my birth mother … our mother …"
No response to that taunt. The voice was not her. Or it was separate from her, but it was her. It had started with talking to herself as a kid. Trying to make herself feel better. It never worked. Eventually the internal conversations changed, and one day she couldn't turn it off. It was all very confusing. The kind of thing that could give a girl a headache. Pinching the bridge of her nose didn't help clear things up.
Sophie now figured the voice was her mother. At least the last few years it had been that cranky old shrew. Always there. Always nitpicking. That was a mother, right?
"It's better this way. Plan C."
If she could figure out how to do it, she'd get rid of the voice as well.
Nothing's ready at that house. It's all in Cali.
Sophie ignored the nagging and pulled off the highway, parking in the most remote spot in the rest area lot. Many cars were parked down around the bathroom and that meant lots of eyes.
She twisted to the back. The girl was still crying but out of it enough that she wouldn't be any trouble. Sophie put Carla on the leash.
"You go. Then I'll take care of our passengers."
The dog hit the grass and squatted.
"I wish I could do that."
After the dog was empty, Sophie did her own business, bought a vending machine coffee, and returned to the van.
"Where am I?" The girl was struggling to sit up.
Sophie patted her head. "Not to worry. We'll be there soon and you'll get to be in a much more comfortable position."
Dan also moved, probably in response to the conversation.
She touched his face. His cheek twitched. The movement was cute, like a mouse wiggling whiskers. He had a tiny bit of gray coming on his temples. Mrs. Hodge's hair was all white. Maybe the premature gray thing ran in the family. She imagined him salt-and-pepper with his rough face weathered and wrinkled from years in the sun. She smiled and carefully injected his neck with more of the tranquilizer. His eyelids fluttered.
Sandy whimpered again, breaking the tender moment with Dan.
Sophie chose another syringe and plunged it hard into the girl's neck. It was the third or maybe the fourth time. There would be a few more. Hopefully it wouldn't kill her before Sophie was able to play this out. It wouldn't work without the waitress, but Sophie'd had a great idea on the road that made the girl much more useful. Another change of plan.
Stupid.
"No. Genius."
|
19 Souls
|
J. D. Allen
|
[
"mystery"
] |
[
""
] |
Chapter 51
|
The meeting room would have been drab under the best circumstances given its tiny putty-gray tables and folding chairs with chipped brown paint.
The walls were decorated with a poster reporting some Vegas crime statistics, a picture of a missing kid, and several other memos. All taped to the wall. They reminded Jim of Lynette and her articles. It was downright depressing.
Ava looked ten years older than she had the day before. Yep, he was thinking of her as Ava all the time now. It didn't really matter. What mattered now was getting Sophie. But Ava looked beat. Her neat hair was in a ponytail and mussed a little on one side. She'd not bothered to fix her makeup from the tears.
But then again, Miller looked like he was in need of a good stiff drink, and a clean pressed jacket. The one he wore looked like it had been tossed in the back of the car more than once that day.
"We got a hit on Maria Callas." Ava tossed a sheet of paper on the table. "No address other than the PO box in Bakersfield, but we found an employer. Medical software. High-end stuff. I have the address."
California. Miller was stuck. Out of his jurisdiction.
"Our office has the address and a supervisor's name. I'm flying out in an hour."
"I'm coming." Jim figured that was going to be a no-go. Not that it mattered. At this point he'd find a way to get there on his own. He wanted Sophie himself and if he had to admit it, he didn't want Ava facing this freak on her own. Of course she was FBI, she wouldn't be on her own. But Jim didn't want her facing Sophie Ryan Evers without him.
She almost smiled. "There's an FBI flight scheduled. I managed to get you on as my witness. In reality, you are the only one who has seen her in person. My director wants a confirmation on her ID since this is such a high-profile case now."
No shit? He'd expected to be left on the tarmac as she flew off like the heroine in an old romance flick.
Miller looked pissed. Jim knew the drill. Las Vegas police had a dead Cynthia Hodge, a dead neighbor, a dead cop, and Sandy was still missing and all Miller could do was sit on his hands while the Feds chased down the out-of-state leads.
Jim felt for him but was once again happy that he could play by the seat of his pants.
Miller was stuck. He might not even get to prosecute Sophie for any of his warrants. Feds would choose the charges that would be the easiest to make stick. Probably not even in Vegas courts.
"When do we leave?"
She glanced at her phone. "Thirty minutes."
"That's barely enough time to get to the airport."
"Then we should go."
|
19 Souls
|
J. D. Allen
|
[
"mystery"
] |
[
""
] |
Chapter 52
|
MediBridge resided in a midsize building in Bakersfield. The receptionist was cheerful. The decor was a mix of bright orange and teal that gave the visitor the impression that the place was crisp, the business intelligent.
Jim leaned over and gave the receptionist his best smile. "Do you have pictures of your employees on your website, miss?"
She straightened her headset. "We do." She held up a finger. "Mr. Layton, some people from the FBI are here to see you." She paused to listen. "I'll tell them." She disconnected the call with the push of a button. "He'll be right here."
Ava moved closer. "Can you show us a picture of Maria Callas on the site?"
She typed away and then turned the screen in his and Ava's direction. A professional-looking photo of Sophie Ryan Evers took up the left half of the screen. Her credentials were listed on the right side. It was a boring picture. Hair pulled back so you had no idea how long it really was. Beige suit, white shirt. Not like the yellow she was wearing when she came to him and started this ride. But it was definitely her.
Ava asked, "That her?"
"Yes, ma'am." His stomach did a little flop. His brain immediately supplied the memory of the night in Texas.
Before he could get too worked up, a man came striding into the reception area in a very expensive suit. Jim was familiar. He'd seen plenty such on the big-time players on the Strip.
He greeted Ava first. "I'm Dave Layton. How can I help you?" Dave was typically handsome with a tight jaw and stubble just enough to make him look rugged. His fake, overly white smile and surgically perfect nose made Jim immediately think car salesman.
Ava was on her feet, showing her credentials and giving her name. Her suit was looking a bit better than it had that morning, but this guy and the receptionist had both out-labeled her for sure. Not that Jim gave a rat's ass about fashion. He didn't. In his business he would often use clothes to get a read on a person. See what they thought of themselves. How they wanted others to see them.
Jim was still in jeans and a black T-shirt and didn't care what anyone thought of his fashion sense.
"We're investigating a case and think one of your employees might be able to assist us," Ava stated as matter-of-factly as possible.
Dave's expression faltered for an instant. "Wow. The FBI? Really?" He glanced at the receptionist, who was still listening even though her head was facing the computer screen on her desk.
"We should pop into a conference room." He gestured through the glass doors separating the reception area from the rest of the business and led them to a small conference room with a table that would accommodate eight attendees.
They all stood. He took a position at the far end of the table.
"Tell me about Maria Callas," Ava said before he had a chance to ask her any questions.
"What about her?" He crossed his arms. Defensive.
"Where does she live?" Ava kept her arms limp at her sides. Relaxed.
He huffed. "Not sure how much I can divulge about her, you know, legally."
"I assure you that, legally, you can tell me her home address and her phone number." Jim wasn't sure that was true. But the FBI had more leeway than regular Joes thanks to the national security umbrella of changes.
"Not sure I want to." Dave was trying for tough, but he just looked smug. Jim wanted to punch this guy right in his perfect nose.
Ava strode over to him, stopping right in his face. "If I want to, I can charge you with interfering with a federal investigation, Dave."
Something told Jim that Special Agent Webb was not impressed with the pretty boy in the expensive suit.
"Harboring a fugitive." One side of her lip rose as if she were thinking hard. "Maybe even accomplice?"
"Hey!" Dave put his hands up as if to surrender and took two steps back before his butt hit the wall. "Not so fast. I'm just saying that HR might not like me giving out personal information. What's this really about anyway?"
"National security. Can't tell you." She opened her jacket. "Now am I arresting you, or do you have the information I've requested?"
"I have her number on my cell, but I'll have to get the address and shit." He dialed the speakerphone on the table. "Helen, I need Maria Callas's records in first floor, conference two, ASAP." He hung up after the woman confirmed the request. "So really, Maria is my best salesperson. Brings in about seventy million a year. Is she in trouble?"
Jim ignored the last part. "She works commission?"
"Oh yes." He grinned. "And she's good."
"You sell hospital supplies?" Ava asked.
"No." Dave's face lit up. "Software that integrates all systems in the hospital. Accounting, ordering, inventory, HR, even patient care and records. A portal. One-stop shop."
"But she's in hospitals all the time?" Jim asked.
He shrugged. "Yeah."
So she had plenty of access to drugs, assuming she had the talent to get by security. But then again she'd gotten by a cop and federal agent in the safe house and evaded getting caught for about umpteen murders.
Dave continued, "She travels all over the world visiting potential clients. She's gone all the time. I've only seen her in person maybe five times."
A woman knocked on the door. Another young, pretty, upwardly mobile person stood on the other side of the glass.
Dave opened the door for her and she beamed her whitened teeth at him. "Here you go, Mr. Layton."
"Thank you, Helen. That will be all."
She hesitated after seeing the strangers in the room with her personnel file.
"Really. I have this."
She backed out.
He opened the file. "Breckenridge." He made a surprised sound. "I didn't realize that. Strange, she never said she lived up there."
Jim figured it wasn't so strange at all. Lots of ski cabins up there. Lots of privacy to do whatever she wanted.
He read off the address. Ava typed it on her phone. Jim memorized it.
Dave also rattled off her number. Jim would remember that too.
"Her area code is Bakersfield?"
"Yeah. Company phone. Company car." He shrugged. "You make the sales she does, you get all the perks."
"How much you figure she earned last year?" Jim asked.
He looked up at the ceiling as if to add in his head. "Can't remember exactly. Probably close to a million."
Well. That was certainly enough to bankroll all her activities. "And she works her own hours?"
"I thought you said you wanted to talk to her as a witness. This sounds more like she's in trouble for something." His bright smile was gone, replaced by tight eyebrows that were also perfectly shaped. Jim wondered if he had them tweezed.
"If she calls, please don't tell her we were here, Mr. Layton. That would be grounds for charges. You understand?"
Dave nodded, his smugness exchanged for a hint of fear.
Ava handed him her card. "You keep the conversation to whatever normal business you'd conduct and then call me if she calls in."
"Is Maria in trouble?"
"You could say that."
|
32 Yolks
|
Eric Ripert
|
[
"Andorra",
"food and drink",
"France",
"biography"
] |
[] |
Chapter 31
|
In that hushed little dining room in the 16th arrondissement, I discovered just how finely detailed a dish can be. If I thought the food at La Tour d'Argent was three stars, Robuchon was on another planet. He served dishes that no one had seen before. A ravioli, the wrapper so thin it was practically translucent, was filled with langoustine and nappéd with foie gras sauce—a startling pairing at the time. We had a miniature crown of rice with rabbit, the rim of the plate painstakingly decorated with alternating dots of truffle, some so small we couldn't imagine how they'd gotten on the plate in time to be served. (The rumors that his cooks worked eighteen hours a day must have been true, I thought.) It was revolutionary compared to what I'd been learning.
I had dined at two-and three-stars like the Ritz and Taillevent with a few of the cooks (the owner of Taillevent was generous and so amused to see a table of pale teenagers in baggy suits that he paid for our meal when he found out where we worked) and had been blown away by the food and service. When I dined at fine restaurants, I always appreciated the luxury, but I also admired the craftsmanship that went into creating the experience: the hand-painted plates, the hand-blown crystal, the true art of service. But Jamin was something else. This was genius. I now knew what direction I wanted my cooking to go in. Now I just had to get there.
|
32 Yolks
|
Eric Ripert
|
[
"Andorra",
"food and drink",
"France",
"biography"
] |
[] |
Chapter 34
|
Within a few weeks, I was promoted to demi chef de partie (a step between commis and chef de partie) on garde manger, which meant that I was now responsible for all of the cold dishes: three salads and five first courses. I had an apprentice and a commis to help me, but even so, it was physically impossible to produce what was needed for twenty diners in the allotted time because each plate required so much attention to detail and precision.
Even Robuchon had to admit that sometimes what he asked us to do bordered on impossible. Once he came up with the idea to do red pepper lobster mousse with a gazpacho vinaigrette. We tried that dish for days but in the end, none of us could make it to satisfaction: the texture was hard to manipulate, and the combination with the lobster, while flavorful, was inconsistent. For a restaurant dish to succeed, it cannot be a one-time circus act. In a restaurant kitchen, you've got to be able to fire the cannon twenty times a night, five nights a week. Eventually Robuchon gave up and changed the lobster mousse to a tomato mousse, a dish that made it to the menu.
And then there were times when I failed simply because of inexperience: though I'd been trained well at La Tour, there was still much I didn't know. One evening during service, the chef poissonier asked me to open two dozen littleneck clams for him. A simple enough task, but I'd rarely done it before, and I was very clumsy. I was not a trained fish chef. I was still on garde manger: cold appetizers and salads. So I lined them up on the shelf and waited for them to open. When a clam opened a little, I shoved my oyster knife in and shucked it. When the chef poissonier returned, I handed him three clams.
"Where are the rest?" he asked.
I pointed to the shelf. "There, I'm waiting for them to open."
|
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