Buca nodded slowly then looked back at the dust cloud rising above the ranks of the approaching centuries.
“And this knot,” Nasum said, holding the ribbon-wrapped stone up for the half-Greek to examine. “It’s not the same as the other knots. I noticed it back when the trail turned north. Different knots.”
“You will tell this to old man Pulcher?” Buca asked. “You will tell him you are worried about a change in knots?’
“Mithra’s tits, I’m not mad, you pederast,” Nasum said and tossed the stone aside. “Come on. We’ll keep moving ahead to the next red marker.”
45
The Hares and the Tortoise
Jimmy Smalls recalled what Lee said about how being in a fair fight meant your plan failed.
He watched the army tramping up the gully toward him over the open sights of his M4. He was back in the trees away from the ledge and sheltered by the gloom that blanketed the ground between the big cedars. Byrus crouched by Jimbo, leaning his weight on the bundle of javelins held in his hands and watching the approaching centuries without the slightest sign of unease.
There were no bowmen among them, and for that Jimbo was supremely grateful.
Some skirmishers double-timed ahead of the first column. Jimbo let them pass. They gave him a bad moment there when two of them stopped at the last ribbon he left and took a look around. Then they just moved on. If they suspected something, they weren’t letting on.
He drew a bead on a rider in the lead of the ranks of marching men, an officious looking bastard in what Jimbo recognized as a centurion’s helmet with its sideways plume. The guy looked eyes front like they were in a parade.
A dude with a trumpet trotted to keep up with the officer. A rider holding the banner with the boar on top of it rode behind and to the centurion’s right. These were the guys he and Bat stood off on the road two days ago, Jimbo realized. And those horses they were riding looked awfully familiar. Those were the saddles they bought back in that market in Caesarea. Jimbo sincerely hoped that none of their gear got left behind intact. Boats swore it was all stacked in and around that tent back in the camp when things went ka-blam. Morris Tauber would have a fit if he found out they left any working ordnance for the locals to find. As it was, the ruins of that fort, if they were even still visible back in The Now, would be a chronal toxic waste dump of anachronistic bits and pieces.
Time for that later. Time for everything later. Right now it was Thermopylae with the odds flipped in his favor.
The Pima slid the grenade tube forward where it was slung from a rail under the fore-end of his rifle. He slid a fat 40mm HE round into the tube and snapped it back in place to the trigger action. He made a motion to Bruce to cover his ears then held the rifle up at a sixty-degree angle and eyeballed the three rectangular formations of men moving steadily closer, crowding the dry wash from wall to wall.
He’d never seen a prettier ambush in his life. “We call this Kentucky windage, Bruce,” Jimbo said and noted that the smaller man was dutifully holding his hands clapped to his ears. A grin split the Macedonian’s face as he anticipated what was to come next.
Jimbo depressed the trigger, and the rifle kicked back in his hands with a loud pop. The grenade rocketed skyward on a cloud of gas and looped back down at a steep angle to strike near dead center atop the rear block of men. He didn’t wait to see the results and fed a second round into the launcher and let it fly at a sharper angle. This one dropped to the left of the century in the lead and ripped a gash across the massed men that bisected the unit into two halves along a bloody tear.
Through the drifting smoke and dust, he could see that the whole line of march had come to a dead halt. The officer was fighting to stay on board his panicked mount. The horse fell finally, hooves kicking wildly. The guy with the banner was down on his ass, his horse going full out away down the gully at a gallop. Orders were being shouted, and Jimbo watched in astonishment as the broken units closed ranks and continued the march. The centurion was on his feet now with helmet gone. The three formations continued on, shields raised, and left a trail of their dead behind them.
Jimbo stood now and directly aimed at the first block of men to send a third round into them. This one skipped off the rocks just before the front wall of shields and tumbled under their feet before detonating. A bloody geyser of men and parts of men sprayed up, collapsing the center of the first five ranks. The screaming rose from the wash as Jimbo watched the block of men part then coalesce to close the awful wound as they marched on.
The centurion called again, and the formations morphed in one smooth motion. Shields were raised and held aloft to be locked in place to form a roof atop each unit.
“The tortoise,” Jimbo whispered. He’d just witnessed one of the legion’s signature moves with his own eyes. But it wasn’t going to do a thing for them. He fired a fresh grenade from the hip and bounced it off the shield roof of the lead century to hit the ground rolling toward the second. The blast caved in the front ranks of that formation as if they had collectively run into an invisible object in their path. They halted for only a few seconds then stepped over their own dead to close the gap with the block of men before them.
“Crazy bastards,” Jimbo said to
