David Epperson - The Third Day

As we trudged up the slope, a handful of nearby Romans searched through the scrub for wounded enemies hiding in the brush. Those they found, they either finished off with swords or crushed their skulls with their heavy shields.

At each splat, Markowitz and Bergfeld gasped, without understanding the kind hand fate had dealt these men. That may seem an odd type of kindness to the uninitiated, but everything’s relative, as we all would see shortly.

When we got up to the road, a soldier directed us to sit off to one side, across from their supply wagon. The centurion and Lavon got into a conversation, and I watched him point to a short stick about five feet to his right and gesture to the Roman in supplication.

The centurion nodded. Lavon picked up the stick and scratched something in the dirt that looked like a map, as several other legionnaires watched with great interest. For his finishing touch, he drew three large triangles near the bottom right-hand corner of his diagram.

The Roman officer stared at the ground for a minute; then he burst out laughing and directed Lavon back over to join us.

I couldn’t tell what the man found so humorous, but I thought it best to remain silent for the moment. Aside from a few leering glances toward Sharon, the soldiers paid little attention to the strangers in their midst. I wanted to keep it that way.

I looked around and counted about eighty in all. Two legionnaires stood as lookouts at the top of the tallest nearby hill, about a hundred feet away, while twenty or so others gathered equipment that had been scattered in the fight and brought it back to the wagon.

To our west, a group of about a dozen — either men new to the unit or soldiers on punishment detail, I guessed — had the unenviable task of collecting disemboweled Zealot bodies, which they stacked haphazardly by the side of the road.

I counted thirty-eight dead Zealots, and the soldiers gathering the enemy corpses didn’t appear close to finishing their work. Against this, only six Roman casualties had come hobbling back; all but two under their own power.

“Efficient, aren’t they?” I muttered to Lavon.

He nodded slowly but didn’t reply.

I glanced over toward the map he had scratched in the sand. “I assume that centurion wanted to know where we came from?”

“Yeah; I told him we were from a place called Norvia. If the Romans ever make it to Finland, it might end up with a new name.”

That made everyone chuckle quietly.

“What are those shapes you drew?” I said.

“He asked me what we were doing here . I told him we were travelers heading to Egypt. We wanted to see the Pyramids.”

I laughed out loud. “Think he bought it?”

“We’re still alive, aren’t we?”

“So far.”

***

The centurion wasn’t the only person seeking answers that morning. I reached under my tunic and pulled out my chip, which I held up to Bryson.

“Dr. Bryson,” I said, “I think I can speak for all of us when I ask if you have any idea why this thing is not working.”

“Your wife said the capacitors only needed half an hour to charge,” added Markowitz. “We first saw these soldiers over an hour ago.”

Bryson looked genuinely nonplussed. He shook his head. “At the moment, I have no idea what could possibly be going wrong.”

“Then I suggest you think harder, Professor,” said Lavon. “We are by no means out of the woods.”

Bryson stared at him curiously. “Pardon me, but I don’t think we’ve met.”

“Forgive me for not introducing our travel companions,” I replied. “You know Ray, of course — Jonah’s son.”

Bryson nodded.

“And this is Dr. Robert Lavon, a leading archaeologist, and to his left is the lovely Sharon Bergfeld, who made a key contribution to unraveling an odd mystery at their Israeli dig.”

Bryson nodded in their direction, but made no move to shake their hands. He rubbed his aching forehead, where his bruise had begun to swell into a nasty dark purple splotch. He eyed them for a couple of minutes as his mind absorbed what he had been told.

Finally, he turned to me. “How did you all get here?”

“Like I told you in the cave, your wife sent us.”

“Juliet sent you all?”

“Not exactly,” admitted Markowitz. “Her plan was for Dr. Lavon to come alone, but after hearing the story, the rest of us decided to tag along.”

He glanced up at a passing Roman. “Perhaps that was a mistake.”

Bryson turned to Lavon. “Why would she send you ? I know most of her friends. I don’t recall ever meeting you.”

“I specialize in reconstructing the history of this region.”

“So?”

Lavon looked him straight in the eye. “It’s actually quite straightforward, Dr. Bryson. You died. Sharon and I are the ones who dug up and identified your bones.”

Bryson shook his aching head again, wondering if perhaps he might even have a mild concussion. He listened as Lavon explained how their paths had crossed, from the first oddity noted by the Israeli lab to the surgical pin they had traced back to the hospital in Boston.

For what seemed like an age, Bryson just stared down the hill. Finally he turned to Lavon. “You really uncovered my skeleton, in that cave?”

Lavon nodded. “It seems an odd thing to say, but indeed we did. Tell us, Professor, why were you running so fast?”

“Bad luck, I suppose. I landed near the road just as these poor bastards launched their attack. I ducked down behind some rocks, but my curiosity got the better of me. I stood up to video the battle, and two Romans spotted me before I realized my error. They came straight at me. I saw that opening and realized it was my only chance.”

“Not much of one, as it turned out,” said Lavon. “They must have come in there after you.”

Bryson grew pale as the realization sank in. He stared down the hill for several more minutes before finally turning to the archaeologist. “You have my gratitude, Doctor.”

Lavon glanced at two Romans tossing yet another Zealot body onto the pile. “We’ll see. How does that saying go — out of the frying pan?”

I was about to ask the Professor if he still had his camera when two soldiers dragged the remains of a young man past them and dropped their burden at the feet of the centurion. An animated discussion broke out between the three Romans.

Bryson stared at the corpse, whose face was caked with dried blood and whose white robe was now drenched bright red.

“My God!” he said. “It’s Scott. What was he doing here?”

I scratched my head for a moment as I tried to place the face; and then it struck me: the lab geek from the control room.

So that’s why our return ticket hasn’t worked.

Bryson, though, wasn’t thinking of home, and none of us managed to jump up fast enough to hold him back. He ran over and knelt beside the kid’s body.

“Oh, my God. Oh, my God,” he kept repeating.

The centurion watched for a few moments with a puzzled expression before he finally signaled for Lavon.

I couldn’t understand him, but there was no mistaking his tone. Whatever had just happened, he didn’t like it, and our chances appeared to have taken a noticeable turn for the worse.

I could see Lavon trying to explain, but the Roman didn’t appear to be going for it. A minute later, he sent Lavon and Bryson over to us. Then he barked an order; and two soldiers grabbed the corpse by the ankles and dragged it back down towards the cave.

“That brainless imbecile,” Lavon muttered as he took a seat on the ground between Sharon and myself.

She looked at him as if he were the most callous brute on the planet. “You can’t say that! The poor boy is dead.”