“You need this more than me,” she said and offered the bota of diluted vinegar.
“I had a dream. You were in it,” he said and took a long slug.
“Did you get any shots today?”
“Chaz stuck me a few times.”
“Need any pain meds?”
“I don’t want to sleep through what comes next,” he said, tossing aside the empty skin and lying back again.
“You sure? I’d like to fast forward through it,” she said.
“Listen up,” Lee Hammond said, addressing the group. “Bat, can you translate for the locals?”
“We need to move now,” he continued with Bat alongside him repeating in Hebrew and both allowing time for the relayed translations.
“These bastards last night were an advance scouting party. They fucked up by letting us know they were here. Jim found where they marked their trail. That means there’s a force following on after. We’re going to have to keep up the pace to stay ahead of them.”
“They might have called up some cavalry by now,” Jimbo spoke up. “Or maybe sent runners to alert a legion that’s marching right now to cut us off.”
“You’re giving these fuckers a lot of credit, Smalls,” Lee said. It was always last names when he didn’t want to hear any more.
“I sure as shit am giving them a lot of credit, Hammond,” Jimbo said, low and even, biting back his annoyance. “They conquered most of their world and held it for centuries. This isn’t some pack of clenched assholes. These are the fucking Roman legions, and they will march right up your ass.”
“What’s your suggestion?” Lee said.
“I hold back as a rearguard. I use some strips of cloth like the scouts did. Lead the Romans away from your route of march to some ground where I can slow their asses to a crawl. I can buy you a day, maybe two. Enough to reach the coast.”
“It’s not a great plan,” Lee said.
“It sucks cock. But any plan is better than no plan. Just running isn’t going to work,” Jimbo said.
“Lee...” Bat started.
“What do you need?” Lee said, cutting her off.
Jimbo traded rifles with Chaz Raleigh. The Pima would take the M4 with grenade launcher and all the remaining 40mm projectiles. He’d hold onto his cut-down pump shotgun as well.
Lee stripped the M203 off his own rifle and handed it to Jimbo as an extra. They left him with ten thirty-round magazines for the rifle, a half bandolier for the pump and some baseball frags Lee had squirreled away. It would have been awesome to have some of the claymores, but they all went up back in the Roman camp. They left him a half-dozen self-heating meals and a few protein bars. Jimbo emptied his pockets of all the hard candies and Tootsie Rolls he had for the stretcher crew.
“I’ll find water on my own. You’re going to need every drop without me to find it for you,” he said.
“You just make to that pier in Caesarea,” Chaz said.
“If we’re not there, you wait. We’ll be along, right?”
“Yeah. What’s time mean to us?” The Pima shrugged.
“And give these fuckers hell, you Apache,” Lee said and held his hand out.
“You know that,” Jimbo shook first Lee’s hand, then Chaz’s. Bat stood on tiptoes to kiss his cheek.
“We shall meet again at Philippi,” Chaz pronounced with a touch of gravity when Bat had stepped away.
“What the hell does that mean?” Jimbo said.
“Julius Caesar’s ghost says it to Brutus. It’s Shakespeare,” Chaz said. “I told you before the place sounded familiar.”
“Well, dayum,” Lee said.
“Fuck you, you don’t read books with no pictures in them,” Boats called from his stretcher.
“You know what? I think I can’t wait until you dumbasses leave me alone here,” Jimbo said. “Really. Get going.”
Lee turned to the remaining tag-alongs and raised a hand palm upward. The stretcher team lifted Boats. The remaining two ambulatory locals helped the man with the broken leg along. The sad procession made their way along the brow of the hill away toward the west.
Only Byrus remained behind, leaning on a bundle of Roman spears. They were pila, the deadly javelin carried by regular troops. They were six feet long, with an iron shaft ending in a pyramid point making up half their length. The iron shaft was set in a wooden handle. They were designed for throwing, and as a close-quarters jabbing weapon.
“Get your ass moving, Bruce,” Jimbo said.
Byrus stood shaking his head with vigor, a smile fixed on his face.
“I mean it, dude. Go with them.” Jimbo pointed after the group. Only Bat turned back to give him a last look before they were out of sight around the slope.
Byrus stamped the spears on the ground and scowled.
“Yeah. I know that look,” Jimbo said. He drew his knife and crouched to cut a number of strips of cloth from the skirt of a Roman corpse. Jimbo stuck the lengths of red wool under this belt and lifted his pack to slide into the straps. A bandolier of grenades went over one arm, and he held out the other to the grinning Byrus.
“If you’re going to be in my army, then you hump your share of gear, Bruce.”
Byrus took the bandolier and settled it over his broad shoulders with an expression of consuming pride. The Ranger hung his rifle in the combat sling, the Macedonian hefted his bundle of spears, and together they set off back east at a trot into the trees.
43
Farewells
The toll at House Villeneuve was great but could have been far worse.
Claude was dead. He died in the kitchen of the house but was not alone. The corpses of three of the intruders lay in the kitchen, pantry, and rear entryway in the wake of his retreat. A broad smear of blood led away from the pantry and into the alley, where a fourth man lay dead with the blade of the saber still lodged in his chest.
Jeannot had been struck unconscious in the melee at the foot of the stairs but recovered by morning with
