“God’s will,” Chaz said.
“What kind of force are we looking at? What’s our opposition?” Lee asked.
“Roman infantry.”
The other three shared a look. Jimbo was grinning from ear to ear.
“What’s their strength?” Chaz said.
“I have nothing on that right now. Expect at least a century.”
“That’s a hundred guys, right?” Chaz said.
“Actually, more like eighty,” Lee said, and the others looked at him. “What? I read, all right?
“This caravan, what’s their final destination?” Jimbo asked.
“Most likely, a slave market. Here.” Dwayne touched the screen, zooming in on a place called Philippi.
“That sounds familiar for some reason,” Chaz said.
“I’m looking at the distances here,” Lee said and pointed at the screen. “This caravan has a shorter distance to travel than we do. How do we intercept them before they get where they’re going?”
“We’ll be on horseback,” Dwayne said.
They had all had horse riding as part of their Ranger training for Afghanistan and had even been on a few old-school ops in the mountains of the Kush.
Jimbo’s grin broadened. He’d been practically born on the back of a pony back on the reservation.
Chaz was glum. He could ride, but he didn’t like it.
Lee began to ask a question, but Dwayne held up his hand.
“The horse situation is being worked out. I promise,” Dwayne said.
“Clusterfuck,” Lee said under his breath.
“There’s a question of languages,” Dwayne said, ignoring him. “We all have Arabic, but it’s the Egyptian dialect. It may not be of a lot of use. Languages change a lot over time. Same for Farsi. They’re both old languages, but they’ve changed since then. We’ll need to wing it.”
“Too bad none of us knows a dead language,” Jimbo said. “Latin or Hebrew. They haven’t changed at all since the time we’re going to.”
“I may be able to help with that.” Lee smiled one of his secret smiles that the rest knew usually meant trouble.
10
The Stranger Returns
Valerius Gratus awoke with a hand over his mouth. His first thought, upon struggling up from the well of sleep, was that one of his cherubs was being playful. He pushed his tongue between his lips to run it over the palm.
His next sensation was of the hand being swiftly withdrawn, followed by the sharp sting of a slap across his jaw. He started awake, sitting up to find a hooded figure dressed in inky-black by his bed. The room was dark, the lanterns extinguished. Gratus inhaled to cry out. He felt a hand of alarming strength close about his throat, locking all sound within.
The black wraith dropped the hood to reveal the white-haired stranger with one knee on his bed and a hand slowly crushing the life from him.
“I told you to execute them,” the stranger—what was his name?—hissed.
The hand was removed from Gratus’s throat. The prefect sat up gasping and was then wracked with coughs. The man’s hand was like a rope noose.
“Tell me why you defied me. Why you did not do as you promised.” The stranger stood glaring at him, the whites of his eyes gleaming like pearl in the muted moonlight.
“How could you know?” Gratus managed to croak at last.
“Do you understand the concept of eventualities, Prefect?”
Gratus stared at him dumbly.
“History, all of human existence, is built upon countless moments. Each rests atop another as numerous as grains of sand upon a beach. But these moments are not equal in size nor import. Some are dust motes, while others are boulders.”
What was this madman on about?
“And each one rests upon the other to bring us here to this very moment, this precise eventuality. By betraying me, you began a chain of events leading to this very moment, with you unguarded and me considering whether or not I should kill you.”
“If I might explain” Gratus began.
“No more lies. I will not kill you. Not because I do not want to, because, believe me as you believe nothing else in your rotten soul, I most dearly wish to kill you in as prolonged and painful way that I can imagine.”
Gratus made no sound but to swallow.
“You will live but only because you are the only means by which I may rectify this catastrophe you have created. You will remain alive as long as you are useful to me as an agent.”
“What am I to do?” Gratus asked. No, begged. He would do anything to save his life.
“You will send a runner after the caravan. This runner will carry a message written in your own hand addressed to—who commands the escort taking the slaves to market?”
“Bachus. Centurion prime to the Twenty-third.”
“A message to Bachus. You are to tell him that, no matter what else happens, he must stay with the company of slaves. His soldiers must make certain that none escape. None. That means not one single captive may go missing.”
“Yes. Yes. I will have my lictor—”
“You will write it in your own hand. Now. Before me. I will dictate each word.”
“Yes. Of course.”
“And it must reach the caravan before they reach Philippi. You will choose your fastest runner. And you will pray to whichever of your gods you believe favors you that they make this runner as fleet as a gazelle.”
“I will. I swear.”
The stranger reached out once more. He made a fist in Gratus’s hair and pulled him from the bed. The prefect gained his feet uncertainly before being walked like a disobedient hound from his bedchamber into his office. His feet barely touched the tiles as he was held painfully aloft by the stranger’s grip. Gratus was thrust to his table.
“Write what I say,” the stranger growled.
“Um, first might I ask about the wine?” Gratus tried not to mewl, but his voice came out in a broken whine.
“The morphea?” The stranger smiled without humor. “Yes, I have brought more of
