He reached to remove the belt from the fire.
There was a deafening explosion.
Bachus was astounded to see his hand vanish in a spray of flesh, leaving only a ragged stump behind.
The beating hurt like a motherfucker but was worth it, Boats thought to himself as the twelve-gauge rounds began to cook off in the fire. There were screams and oaths, and the SEAL hugged the floor as the tent rocked to a firecracker stream of explosions. A lifeless body dropped on him in a sticky shower of hot blood. The rounds went off like mini grenades, sending lead pellets everywhere. Boats felt the body atop him judder under the impact of one buck load after another.
The blasts died away, and Boats slid from under the body. The guy was missing everything from the shoulders up. All around the tent, men lay still or writhed. The big cheese who had been asking all the questions was motionless in a pool of blood. His second in command sat on his ass, crying like a baby at the bloody mess of jagged bone and ripped flesh that was all that was left of his legs. The little archer was crawling across the carpet, using a hand to hold his guts in place and leaving a greasy loop trailing behind him leaking shit.
The SEAL stood and plucked a gladius from the hand of one of the dead soldiers. Then he picked up his bottle of Revolucion tequila. Standing balanced on one foot, he undid the cap and took a long pull from the blue bottle. Then he emptied the remaining contents on the little Assyrian bastard who was leaving a snail trail of gore across the carpet. Boats hobbled to the brazier and tipped it over. Embers reached the pool of hundred-proof agave, and the archer was instantly engulfed in flames.
Boats tossed the empty aside and stepped through the flaps of the tent into the cool, clean morning air.
All around, soldiers stopped in their tracks to see a naked giant emerge from the centurion’s burning tent. The man was covered over every inch of his body in drying blood. He held a sword in his hand and eyed the ring of armed men as though mildly surprised to see them. Inside the tent, flames reached other combustibles among the heap of items pulled from the prisoner’s camp. Muffled thunderclaps rumbled within, and holes were rent in the cloth walls all around. A few legionnaires were struck down where they stood, blood gushing from wounds made by forces unseen.
The soldiers withdrew, some taking cautious steps back while others threw down their weapons and ran for the partly completed walls of the fort. More fire erupted from inside the centurion’s tent, and running men were felled by blows from invisible blades that tore at their armor and flesh.
Through it all, the red-headed madman stood unflinching. He finally spoke in a guttural tongue none could understand.
“Veni, vidi, vici, huh? What a load of bullshit.”
33
Passion and Procrastination
The Villeneuve home was in the center of a block along the Avenue Bosquet. It was technically a townhouse, Caroline supposed. It felt more like a mansion, with three expansive floors and large luxurious rooms topped with high, sculpted ceilings. Mme. Villeneuve revealed that she was a widow of five years. Her husband had been a captain of industry who had managed his family’s holdings in land and shipping to build an even greater fortune.
When the war broke out, the widow had been in Paris and chose to remain in the city rather than return to their country home in Versailles. Just as well, as it turned out, since the former imperial palace was now home to the Prussian general staff and, rumor had it, Wilhelm Friedrich Ludwig himself.
The cavernous house had more than enough rooms to house Caroline and Stephen. Mme. Villeneuve lived here with her son Jeannot, a student at university. There was also Claude, the tall man with the boxer’s face, who served as a bodyguard as well as carriage driver and footman. His job was entirely the former now as they had sent their two carriage horses to the knacker’s weeks before and had been living off steaks and soup made from their flesh.
A chef named Anatole resided in the house as well as Inès and Corrine, the plump downstairs maid and the petite upstairs maid, respectively.
Caroline was shown into a sumptuous boudoir straight out of a movie. A massive canopy bed dominated the center of the room. A fortune in finely carved furniture in black wood accented in silver lined the walls beneath paintings—mostly traditional landscapes, still lifes, and portraits—all hanging crookedly due to the recent tremors. A thick-pile Persian carpet trimmed in silk of Belgian blue lay at the foot of the bed. Corrine was running a cloth over a child’s crib that had the most charming images of rabbits worked in the wood in bas relief with mother of pearl inlays.
“It was Jeannot’s,” Mme. Villeneuve said wistfully. “I could not bear to part with it.”
“I am certain that Stephen will adore it as well,” Caroline said.
“What do babies know or care of luxury?” The widow shrugged. “We indulge ourselves when we spoil them so.”
“Still, it is all so generous of you.” Caroline set Stephen in the crib on crisp, clean sheets that Corrine had laid inside.
“It is my pleasure to have the sound of a child in the house once more,” the widow said. “Now, you and your baby will rest. I will send Corrine in a few hours to let you know that the late meal is being served.”
Caroline
