“That’s what happens? You guys rewrite history, right? That’s what we came back to do, am I right?”
“You think we can rely on retro-intelligence. That’s never as reliable as you make it sound,” Lee said.
“It’s something, isn’t it?” she said.
As it turned out, Marcus Rupilius Pulcher was illiterate.
He would never have written an accurate report of the events leading to the destruction of five centuries in any case. The optio who served as his scribe was dead, his head ripped off by one of the killing bolts of lightning that fell upon them in that draw.
The centurion knelt in his tent, draining his second skin of wine. It did not improve his mood. It did nothing to quell the screams of the wounded lying outside in the rough camp laid by the few survivors. The remaining men of his formation, those who had not already run away, were so small in number that a proper sentry could not be posted. There was no relief for those who suffered from injuries. They could only shriek until their throats were raw. They would lose consciousness and bleed away until they were lifeless, still and pale.
Pulcher’s own wounds were painful, but he would live. His right arm and leg were scored with gashes made by tiny bits of wire that had appeared there instantly with the clap of thunder that had reduced his forward century by half The same scraps of metal gutted the horse he was riding. He’d fallen hard from the saddle, narrowly missing being brained by the kicking hooves of the dying animal.
Here in solitude, he removed his armor and tore his clothing into strips to bind his arm and leg. His body broke out in a chilled sweat from the pain. The binding cloths were swiftly soaked black with his blood.
For all the sacrifice of his men, there was nothing to show for it. They never even saw their attackers. It was as if they were struck down by a force of nature. They had drawn the ire of some dark and vengeful god. There was no opportunity to draw blood, to sink their blades into the flesh of their enemy, to hear his cries for mercy.
It was his command. All fault would be his. All shame would be upon his name.
He regarded the gladius that lay before him in its scabbard. The sword had been purchased by him in Damascus. The blade was the finest steel, The hilt and tang were polished brass worked with a clever skein of oak leaves. The grip was red oak stained dark with his sweat over the years. The pommel was the head of a roaring lion, its mane worn smooth by his resting palm. It had cost him nearly a year’s pay, and he never once regretted its purchase.
He unsheathed it and admired the gleam along its razor edge. There was a nick in the blade back near the hilt where it had once caught the blow from a Parthian ax head. One of the many times it saved his life. One of the many times it drank deep of the blood of the enemies of Rome.
Pulcher set the lion-head pommel in the loose dirt before him and rested the tip of the blade against the soft bone where his ribs joined. He wondered idly who might own this blade after this day. It did not matter now. With a violent exhalation to empty his lungs, he drove himself forward onto the sword with all his weight and force.
He was dead within seconds with little pain but for bitter memories fleeting past.
With him died history.
48
The Ocean Raj
“Caroline? What’s this number? It’s not the Bern exchange or the burner I gave you.”
“I changed phones after you left, Dwayne. I thought it was safer.”
“You’re probably right.”
“Miss me?”
“I’ve hardly had time to, babe. Been busy as hell since I got back. Your brother just got the guys through the field. I was gonna call you.”
“You would have missed me anyway. I’m not in Bern anymore.”
“What are you saying? Why not? I just left you there yesterday. Is it the baby?”
“Stephen’s fine. It’s kind of a long story, and I can’t go into it now.”
“Is that him I hear?”
“Yes. We’re both safe. Samuel came and got us. Something came up.”
“Samuel? What was it, Carrie? What came up?”
She sighed.
“All right, I’ll come get you and Stephen.”
“No, Dwayne. We’re good here. We really are. Morris needs you there.”
“All right. I’ll come get you when this op is over. You can tell me all about it then.”
“Listen, Dwayne, when Lee gets back, you need to tell him something.”
“What?”
“Tell him, ‘the oracle at Joppa.’ He’ll know what it means.”
“That’s it? What’s it mean?”
“I wish I knew. I wish to God, I knew.”
“You sound tired, babe.”
“So do you. We should both get some sleep, right? Love you.”
And the connection was broken.
Dwayne Roenbach pocketed the sat phone. That was his infant son he heard in the background. He readily admitted he knew jack shit about babies, but he was damn sure three-day-olds couldn’t say “Mama.”
He had a lot of questions but could tell by the tone in Caroline’s voice that she didn’t want to hear any of them right now. It wasn’t irritation he heard at the edges of her answers. It was more like a despondency. She was probably only tired as she said. Both she and Stephen were safe. That was enough for now.
Dwayne thought about leaving the bridge area to look for Morris Tauber to update him on his sister. But he didn’t feel like a lot of questions either, especially ones he had no answers for.
It was two days later during a routine opening of the field that the text message came through.
PREPRED TO EXFIL—SND CRRNT
POS AND EST WINDOW
MEDEVAC NEEDED SRGRY
RESPND—RESPND—
SPRRW
A detailed star fix was attached, setting the time of transmission as 20 September 16 at 02:56:17:01.
SPARROW was their personal code for any kind
