Silver nearly killed them both.
Charlie couldn't really blame the horse. But the panic-stricken gelding very nearly killed Charlie and Lucania before he managed to wrestle the animal under some semblance of control—with the help of several men who jumped to his aid.
"Thank you!" Charlie gasped.
One of them held the horse for him while another asked, "Are you hurt, sir? You're limping."
"I'll be fine," Charlie managed. "Thank you again. . . ."
He led the horse farther down the street and rounded a corner before sagging against the nearest wall and giving vent to tears of agony. His daughter clung to his neck, trembling.
"Pater . . ." She was touching his face. "Pater. Wet." Her baby giggle was one of the most beautiful sounds he'd ever heard. She's not afraid. . . .
"Papa," Charlie said softly in English. "Papa."
"Pa-pa." He closed his eyes. He had one bright little girl to raise. He kissed her forehead, afraid she might break in his grasp. Then, very carefully, checked his little girl for injuries. If I'd dropped her . . . But he hadn't. "We're okay, little Lucky, we're okay. Let's find Sibyl, now. . . ."
It was harder than ever, climbing into the saddle while trying to balance a baby over one shoulder, but Charlie managed it. He settled her onto his lap, chubby little legs on either side of Silver's bony withers. She squealed and played with the horse's mane.
The men who'd witnessed their initial upset handed Charlie back his helmet, which he jammed on before any of them could notice the brand on the side of his throat or the collar half hidden by his cloak.
"And my slave woman?" he asked hopefully.
"She ran that way, calling for you."
Charlie headed back the way he'd come, cursing fate and the foul luck that had separated them. He set Silver at a brisk trot, which elicited squeals of alarm from Lucania—squeals which turned to delighted gurgles once she realized "Papa" wasn't going to let her fall off. Charlie marveled, felt something hard and brutal inside him soften. She trusts me.
Nothing—nothing—was ever going to threaten this child the way it had threatened him. The gladius, secure for the moment in its sheath, hugged his hip reassuringly. He was armed, mounted . . .
More than a match for anything.
Except Vesuvius.
He started calling Sibyl's name every few minutes, not caring how many passersby stared in his wake. Charlie searched for hours. Lucania fell asleep in the crook of his arm, a limp little bundle of damp red-gold curls and dirty linen. He asked people if they had seen a woman wearing an Egyptian gown and collar, gave them Sibyl's description. A few had seen her. But every time Charlie set out in the direction they pointed, he came up empty.
Everywhere he looked, Charlie found earthquake rubble and wavering torches and lanterns. Citizens and slaves were busily shoring up roofs, repairing walls, or simply gossiping. Charlie couldn't believe anyone with two brain cells to rub together was still here, but the streets were crowded. Many houses appeared to be occupied, judging from the number of rooftop parties in progress.
He tracked Sibyl in circles for at least three hours, shouting her name until he was hoarse. Then people simply stopped reporting having seen her. As he sat beneath the massive equestrian statues of the basilica, trying to figure out why, a terrible thought occurred to him. What if Bericus had somehow laid hands on her again? She could be imprisoned at the townhouse.
How much time had passed since the eruption's first explosion at midday? He tried to gauge it, failed utterly. The false twilight had deepened into the genuine darkness of night. All he knew for certain was, the town would die near midnight.
He was running out of time.
He had no trouble recalling which house was Bericus'. The main door stood wide open, spilling torchlight carelessly into the street. Agitated slaves milled uncertainly in the entrance. Charlie halted a safe distance away and called out to them.
"You there, is your master home?"
"Sir?" The slaves turned. One stepped forward. "No, sir. He is gone, and the mistress is dead, and we are afraid." The man was actually wringing his hands.
Charlie frowned. Another slave pushed his way to the front of the group and glared up at Charlie. A nasty bruise swelled one side of his face. "The crazy fool went running into the streets with a sword. Swore he was going to kill the bitch."
"Kill who?" Charlie asked sharply.
"His new plaything. He's already killed his wife, beat her to death, then he went to look for the slut. She was gone."
"What was this slave's name?"
The man spat. "Who cares?"
The sword was in his hand before he could even pause to think about it. He kicked Silver around. Lucania woke up and squealed in surprise. The slaves scattered, all except for his target. Charlie pinned the insolent cretin to the wall with Silver's massive shoulder. Charlie pricked the man's throat with his sword tip.
Very softly, he repeated his question.
"Please—sir—mercy—" The man's eyes had widened. His lips quivered.
Another voice broke into Charlie's awareness. "Sir—I beg of you— Marcus does not know. Her name is Aelia, noble sir—"
Charlie stared down into a terrified woman's face.
"And no one knows where either of them have gone?"
General murmurs of denial reached his ears. Charlie swore.
"Get me a lantern!" he snapped.
The woman fled and returned so fast Charlie wondered if they'd had it waiting, already lit, for a planned search party. He took it on the point of his sword and backed Silver away. Lucania wriggled and said distinctly, "Sibyl!"
The unfortunate Marcus said something irreverent and fainted. Charlie reined Silver away from the slaves and left them standing in the street.
Damn, damn, damn . . .
The sea was terrifically rough, smashing into the seawall with foaming whitecaps. There was no sign of anyone along the visible stretch of beach in either direction—and no sign of a boat anywhere in the harbor.
Charlie balled his fist under Lucania's arm and spat something vile into the wind, which whipped the cloak back off his shoulders with a snap of heavy cloth. Somewhere in this shrouded, doomed city, Sibyl Johnson was fighting for her life.
He had to find her.
Sibyl huddled at the entrance to the boat chamber while Tony Bartlett's slaves covered his precious manuscript box with earth they'd dug from the hole. They didn't put it into the hole, just covered it with a heaping mound of solidly packed earth. She waited impatiently while Bartlett growled something under his breath. He set his lantern down to shovel dirt over it with his bare hands and pack it down tighter.
Almost done. You're clever, Tony—most people might not have noticed the difference in the soil types and you knew better than to put it into the hole, 'cause it would've been in the wrong stratum. Where are you going next, Tony? Home?
He certainly wouldn't be taking those slaves with him. Sibyl didn't dare let any of them see her. She couldn't fight three at once. She probably couldn't even fight Tony Bartlett. She remembered with a shiver the feel of his fist on her aching face. But could she follow him without being seen? Sibyl chewed her lip, agonized by the impossibility of the choices facing her. If he caught her now, he'd murder her, quietly and ruthlessly.
Part of her wanted to cut and run now, to escape Herculaneum by any means available and get as far away from Tony Bartlett as time and space would allow. Another part of her knew if she did, she would hate herself for the rest of her life. Yet another part wanted, impossibly, to find Charlie and hide in his arms, have him stroke her hair and whisper that everything would be okay. . . .
Sibyl blinked fiercely. Cora Johnson had not raised her only grandchild to indulge in useless fantasies. She hadn't found Charlie in the one place she'd expected to find him. She could spend hours searching those crowded streets and never find him. She already had. It was like one of those impossible searches through a crowded department store: should she wander around hoping to run across him, or find a strategic crossroad and scan the crowd passing by? Whichever, Bericus would be out there somewhere, stalking those same streets, searching for her.
Bartlett dismissed his slaves. Sibyl flattened herself against the sea wall. They waded out past her and went the other direction, toward the street Xanthus' carriage had taken earlier, without seeing her shadowy form. In fact, they kept their gazes on their feet and tried to negotiate the hazardous footing without being swept against the stone wall or out to sea.
She held her breath and peered into the boat chamber again. Tony Bartlett had picked up the lantern. He was gazing down at the freshly tamped earthen mound. His low chuckle reached her, then he fumbled beneath his tunic and drew out a modern pack of cigarettes and a book of matches. Something glinted in the light as it fell to the ground. A coin from his pocket. He moved without seeing it and ground it into the softer earth with his foot.
She gripped her knife handle more tightly. That stinking coin. . . . He'd dropped his own anachronism and hadn't even realized it. He turned and stalked toward the opening of the boat chamber. Sibyl ducked back, heart pounding against her ribcage. The glow of his cigarette appeared in the darkness at the entrance. He paused, evidently gazing at the maddened sea, then took a long drag on his cigarette and chuckled again.
"Not a bad week's work," he said laughing, not bothering to use Latin. "Not bad, at all." The cigarette glowed brighter as he drew smoke into his lungs. "Well, old boy," he muttered, flipping the cigarette into the foaming breakers, "time to go." He chuckled, then held the lantern out in front of him, stepped into the surf—
And saw her.
For an instant he froze. His jaw went slack. His eyes widened. Then a snarl transformed his face.
"You—!"
For just an instant, Sibyl cringed. Tony's snarl turned to laughter. She drove the knife straight at his belly from below. He yelled and twisted aside as steel grazed his ribs.
"Bitch!"
A crashing wave against his ankles knocked him off balance. The lantern flew out of his hand and fell with a clatter into the boat chamber. Shadows tilted crazily as it arced downward and rolled to a stop. Somehow it didn't go out. Bartlett came up coughing seawater. Sibyl hurled herself at him, stabbing grimly at his shoulderblades. He screamed as the knife grazed his back, then kicked her feet out from under her. The sodden dress caught at her legs.
A smashing wave caught her with smothering force. Water battered her. Scouring sand and stinging salt abraded her whole body. She felt a fist strike her chest. Instinctively, she lashed upwards with the knife. A hand closed around her wrist. Agony shot through her arm. Granite fingers dug into the tendons.
Sibyl twisted frantically, half-drowned as another wave smashed into her from behind. His grip loosened. He fell sideways, dragged by the water. She managed to wrench free. She crawled toward the boat chamber, coughing violently, nearly paralyzed by the wet cloth around her legs.
His weight slammed into her from behind. She sprawled forward into sand. Bartlett's fingers closed on her neck. He forced her head back and sideways. She lunged upward, kicked madly with both feet. No good . . .
Pain mushroomed through her neck. Sibyl stabbed blindly backwards with the knife. He howled and let go. Sibyl rolled heavily onto her side.
Bartlett was on his knees above her. His face had twisted into a grimace, his flesh waxy white. He clutched at his side. Blood dripped from between his fingers.
"You—bitch—"
He lunged awkwardly. Sibyl came to her knees as he dove forward, off balance. Sluggish, staggering drunkenly, Sibyl brought the knife up between them. The shock of his weight slammed her to the ground. The impact jarred her from wrists to shoulders. They toppled over backwards. He landed heavily on her chest. An agonized cry ripped loose. He tried to right himself, managed to push himself up with one arm.
The knife was buried to the hilt in his chest.
Two inches below the right collarbone.
Sibyl shoved hard. He windmilled and crashed backward. Tony fell heavily into the entrance of the boat chamber. For a moment, the only thing she could do was huddle on the sand and let the waves crash over her. Then, slowly, she forced her knees to function. She managed to crawl into the chamber beside him.
His breathing was shallow, hoarse. In the light from the fallen lantern his skin was grey. His lips were drawn back in a rictus grimace.
"Sibyl—" One hand groped. She avoided it like a water moccasin. She heard a dreadful sound and looked up. Bartlett had wrapped both hands around the hilt. He was trying to wrench it loose. A moment later, he collapsed, keening in agony. He'd failed to budge it. "Sibyl—" His lips barely moved. "For the—love of—God—"
Lamplight flickered crazily across his face. His eyes were ghastly burned holes in a cadaver's face. She felt detached, apart from his pain, as though he were a flickering image in a silent movie. Like thunder in her brain, words rumbled unbidden into her thoughts. "For the love of God, Montresor. . . ."
Sibyl crouched above him. She didn't even recognize her own harsh voice. "How do you get back, Tony?"
She waited while his lips worked. "Recall—device—"
"Where?"
His fingers clawed at the knife embedded in his flesh.
"Where?" She leaned a fraction of her weight on the handle.
He screamed. She clenched her teeth over bile.
"Ahh—p-p-pocket—"
She searched under his tunic. Beneath it he wore khaki military-style shorts, with deep, button-down pockets. She found a set of keys and a variety of coins, which she impatiently shoved back. In a second pocket she found a dense metallic oblong he'd wrapped in several layers of plastic and metal foil. It was an inch thick, six inches long, three inches wide. A latch-type cover opened to reveal a miniaturized, color-coded keypad of no obvious pattern. Number keys and blank, colored keys ran in rows beneath a series of glowing LED numbers. Time coordinates? Or geographic? Or both? Something else entirely?
"How does it work, Tony?"
Bartlett's lips moved again. "Take—me—too—"
She smiled coldly. "Sure, Tony. I'd be glad to turn you over to Interpol. Just tell me how to work this little gadget."
"Red—button—preset—mash it—takes ten—fifteen minutes to—open time hole—"
She closed the lid. Carefully rewrapped it. Then relieved him of the money pouch at his outer tunic belt. She dumped out the Roman coins and slid the recall device snugly inside it, then ripped off the lower half of Bartlett's tunic. Sibyl used the strip to fashion a belt and tied the pouch securely to her waist. When she glanced up, Tony was watching her. Pain had dulled the characteristic glitter of his eyes.
Blood-sucking leech . . .
"I'm going to need this, Tony." She took hold of the knife with both hands. She straddled him and braced both feet, then thought better and placed one foot on his chest. Sibyl yanked up, hard.
He jerked. Screamed. Then fell back, panting hoarsely, eyes squeezed shut. Blood soaked the front of his tunic, welling up in a terrible flood. He reeked of fear, dirt, and the coppery stench of blood. She searched him more thoroughly and relieved him of a short, wicked-looking dirk. There were a lot of people out and about on the streets. Granny Johnson had always told her, "Sibyl, never overlook options."
She stuck the dirk through her belt. Smart old Granny. . . .
He opened pain-dulled eyes as she rose to her feet. He blinked and slowly focused on her. It took him several moments to assimilate the stony expression that seemed to have frozen her face. She imagined the headsman must have looked much the way she did before he relieved Anne Boleyn of her lovely head. . . .
"Sibyl?" he whispered. "Sibyl—please—"
She held his gaze for a long moment. Thought about forcing him to quote Poe for her.
Settled for: "Burn in hell, Tony."
He screamed her name until she was so far away, the noise from volcano and earthquake-tossed surf drowned out the sound. She gripped the blood-slippery handle of the knife until her hand ached. Sibyl gritted her teeth as she waded through angry, frothing water.
She'd vomit later.
Right now, she just didn't have time.
Charlie began his search with the shipyard. Any boats that might have been in the harbor earlier in the day were gone now. Xanthus' ship was conspicuously absent. At least he wouldn't have to worry about search parties looking for him. He scowled, then urged the horse down into the pounding surf. Silver protested once, tossed his head, then waded doggedly forward. Breakers slammed into the horse's side and drenched Charlie within seconds.
"Hold tight, Lucky!" he called, tightening his own grip on the little girl. Small fingers closed over his arm. He checked dark boat chambers, holding his lantern out on the end of his sword to light the dark, wet spaces. There were a few dinghies left, far back in the chambers, and a couple of masted fishing boats with the masts unstepped, but nothing which looked capable of handling that seismically ravaged sea.
There was no trace of Sibyl, either.
He worked his way down past the main part of town and shivered under the ghostly outline of the Suburban Baths above him. Its wide, glassed-in main windows overlooked the sea like monstrous black eyes. Charlie hunched his shoulders unconsciously, aware that Bericus' villa was just above that terrace wall. He kept searching.
When he saw a faint glow coming from one of the chambers ahead, his heart shuddered to a halt. Then his pulse kicked in at triple time. He urged Silver forward and gained the entrance. Charlie reined the horse around to find a huddled figure lying far enough back that the breakers didn't swamp across it. He started to dismount—
—and the man he knew as Antonius Caelerus lifted his head. Tony! The man stared dully up at Charlie. Bartlett had bled into a crude bandage he'd pressed to his shoulder. The thug wet his lips and tried to focus his vision. Charlie debated whether to address him in Latin or English.
"Help . . . me," the man croaked in Latin. "Slave escaped . . . attacked me . . . got to find . . ."
Charlie had to know.
"How were you planning to get home, Tony?" he asked in English.
The grey pallor of Tony Bartlett's skin washed white in the lantern light. "What—? Who—?"
"I was Big Joe's middleman."
Tony blinked. Licked his lips. "Mr. . . ." he seemed to search for the name Charlie had used when dealing with Carreras ". . . Mr. Ireland?" His voice wavered badly. "Listen—I know you've got to be furious, Mr. Ireland, I don't blame you." He tried, and failed, to manage a disarming grin. "But you got to know, you have to understand—I wasn't part of that deal, I had nothing to do with that decision—"
Charlie reined Silver closer and stared down at the fallen thug. "Tell me how you get back."
He shook his head. Frustrated rage transformed his dying face into a ghoul's mask. "Can't get back. Bitch stole the device. Got to find that—"
"Sibyl?"
Tony started badly. "You know her?"
Charlie's instantaneous, visceral reaction was, Thank God, thank you, dear, sweet Lord, she got away. His next thought shamed him to his bones: She didn't take me with her. He knew Sibyl would have had no way of finding him, but the overpowering loss of coming that close, and failing to make it home, made breathing difficult. He tightened his grip around his child and hated the man at his feet.
Tony glared up at him. "Mr. Ireland, you've got to find this bitch, I'm telling you! She's got the recall device."
"Get real, Tony. She's long gone."
Tony shook his head, his face a sculptor's study in pain and desperation. "No, she can't be gone yet. Hasn't been a storm."
"What?" Hope and fear blossomed simultaneously. "What are you talking about?"
"A storm. No thunderstorm out there. When she pushes that button, gonna be one Holy Mother of a thunderstorm. It's a side effect, like. Takes time to build up. Maybe quarter of an hour. You see the storm brewing, you got maybe ten minutes. No storm, then nobody's pushed the button."
Charlie frowned. If this slimeball weren't lying . . .
"Strip."
"Huh?"
"Down to the skin. Move it!"
"But—my shoulder—"
Charlie shifted his sword. "I could always drop this lantern off my sword tip and kill you first. Searching corpses doesn't bother me much, Tony. Thanks to your boss, I spent two years killing men in the arena. Lots of tough men, Tony. Now strip!"
Tony undressed. He was slow and he whimpered like a baby, but he undressed. Charlie made him dump everything from his clothing onto the ground. There was nothing larger or more sinister-looking than a pack of cigarettes. Charlie made him rip open the pack and shred each one.
He was telling the truth about the device, at any rate. Charlie didn't think he'd ever seen anyone more genuinely terrified.
"Huh. So you want my help finding the broad? What's it worth?"
"Anything—God, you name it—"
Charlie parted his lips in what might have been a grin. Naked, bleeding down his chest, Tony swallowed hard. Very softly, Charlie said, "Tell me about Jésus Carreras, Tony, and the family's new business. . . ."
Twenty minutes later, Charlie was at the end of the seawall, where a torrential stream cascaded into another small harbor. He'd run across several surly fishermen guarding their beached boats from thieves and had seen some hastily negotiated transactions between a rich patrician family and one particularly seedy-looking lout with a good-sized, masted fishing sloop. There was, however, no sign of Sibyl. Tony hadn't possessed a clue as to which direction she might have gone.
Charlie grimaced. He would hear Bartlett's curses in his dreams, but he wasn't in the business of rescuing cold-blooded killers caught in their own traps. He was a cop, sworn to uphold the law—but this was a.d. 79, and Charlie'd been a tough street hood long before he'd taken a badge. Tony "Bartlett" Bartelli would get his own ass out, or die in Sibyl's place. Charlie peered up at the sky, but saw no hint of a storm brewing. Where had she gone? Looking for him? Charlie spat an oath into the teeth of the wind and reined Silver around toward town again.
She was a scientist. He'd never been able to figure those birds. Was she planning on staying to watch the disaster unfold, just to satisfy some stupid scholarly itch? If he did find her, he was going to shake her so hard . . .
Charlie headed Silver up off the beach and began to search streets and alleys near the northwestern harbor. Where would she have gone to activate the device? Tony'd said there would be a lot of lightning discharged right around the portal. Sibyl probably wouldn't want to activate it in town, then. He turned Silver and set the horse at a brisk trot for the city's outskirts. He rode from the waterfront inland, calling Sibyl's name every few feet.
Nothing answered but the ominous roar of the volcano.
By the time he'd ridden around the entire city and returned to the beachfront on the opposite side of town, the night had progressed so far he didn't dare waste any more time. Lucania was asleep again, nestled inside a fold of his cloak. He could feel her breaths against his bare arm. Charlie stopped his horse. He glared impotently at the volcano, then squeezed shut his eyes. He was out of time. If he didn't escape now . . .
He swore and turned Silver back toward town. He had to search one last place. If Bericus had recaptured her before she'd had a chance to use the device . . . Bericus' villa was still in chaos. He watched from the shadows as Bericus himself strode about in the street, shouting at his slaves and exhorting his neighbors to help search for his missing slave.
Charlie breathed a faint sigh of relief.
Then reluctantly turned his mount back toward the waterfront. Sibyl hadn't been recaptured. Wherever she was hiding . . . Bitterness filled his throat. She'd probably searched and searched for him, while he searched for her, playing a stupid, fatal game of cat and mouse and missing one another by minutes. The weight of his daughter against his arm made Charlie want to cry.
Charlie wished Sibyl the best of luck getting home. He closed his mind to the crushing loss of hope. He couldn't afford the risk of waiting for the lightning storm to begin brewing in an attempt to return with her. Not only might he never pinpoint the actual location of the portal . . . he had a gut feeling they were all nearly out of time. If it had just been his own life to throw away, he might have stayed.
But with Lucania's life at stake, too . . .
He couldn't see any stars through the pall of ash drifting down from the volcano, but he knew the night was well advanced. It had taken a damnably long time to ride all the way around the city. Charlie was betting it was already past eleven. The eerie, hair-raising sheets and gouts of flame shooting through the blackness overhead frightened him more deeply every time he looked up.
Charlie tried to ignore the ache in his chest and throat when he thought of sunlight dancing on Biscayne Bay. Of skilled surgical reconstruction. Of someone else touching her hair, watching her green eyes light up with laughter . . .
Charlie kicked his horse into a fast canter. The lantern on his sword danced and swung, casting plunging shadows across the dark walls of houses and public buildings. Silver plunged through thinning crowds, hooves rattling on stone. Charlie ignored curses flung after him. He guided the horse back down to the beach and set out to find the fishermen he'd seen earlier. Please, God, he prayed, let them still be there. Let at least one of them be willing to leave now. Or if unwilling, then able to see reason at the point of a sword.
Most were gone, along with their boats. A few beggars dressed in rags had fallen asleep in the boat chambers. They'd wake up, soon enough; then, of course, they'd sleep forever. One poor fellow was working on an overturned boat, caulking its bottom and casting fearful glances over his shoulder.
He'll never finish that job in time, not even with help.
Charlie rode past him and kept searching.
Desperation was beginning to overtake him when he found, near the end of the seawall, a young man and woman trying to drag one of the heavy fishing boats out of a deep boat chamber. They'd put the mast up, but were making progress across the breaker-washed sand by inches only. Deep breakers smashing into the seawall lifted the boat and tossed it backwards; then, when the sea retreated again, left the boat high on wet sand. The woman—a tiny thing, barely four feet tall—could scarcely keep her footing in the rough surf. They paused, gasping for air, when Charlie thundered through the breakers toward them.
"I am not a thief!" the man began defensively. "This is my boat. The longer I watched that mountain, the more it frightened me. I'm not a thief!"
"Did I say you were?" He pointed to the heavy boat. "You'll never get that thing into deep water by yourselves."
The man's voice was bitter. "My friends laughed at me when I asked for help."
"Then tie a rope to my saddle. I'll have my horse drag it down for you. If "—he paused significantly, and watched a wary, frightened look come into their eyes—"if you take me with you. Me and my child."
The man blinked in open surprise. His wife whispered into his ear, her face a mask of terror.
"Why does a Roman soldier wish to sneak out of the city by night?" The question came out with transparently false bravado. In the light from Charlie's lantern he could see the man's knees knocking together.
Charlie didn't know spit about the administration of Roman legions or what their rules of conduct were. It was entirely possible citizens were given rewards for turning in an AWOL trooper.
He felt instinctively this was not the time to play it tough.
"You're not the only one, my friend," he said quietly, "who's been watching that mountain. You must know from my accent I'm a provincial recruit. I've seen mountains blow up before, just like that one. Sometimes they'll spit fire and ash like this for hours, even days, harmlessly. Then, without warning, they'll destroy everything for stadia and stadia around. Cover it with fire and death. I owe the Empire my best service, to keep her strong and safe from danger, but I can't serve Rome if I'm dead and burned on the beach at Herculaneum. And there will be a great many dead on this beach."
As one, the three of them turned to look at the baleful glow of the mountain. Eerie lightning discharges played through the ash cloud and shot down the upper slopes of the mountain. The glow from the volcano's mouth lit the underbelly of the boiling black cloud. It visibly churned and seethed like something alive and infinitely malevolent.
Charlie held in a shiver and added, "Think about this, as well. When you make harbor, you will undoubtedly find chaos and much fear. Will you not be better off in the company of a soldier of the Empire than alone?"
They went into a fearful huddle. After a moment, the man straightened. "I am Decius Martis. Phillipa and I would welcome your presence on our boat, Centurion."
Huh. That's a decent rank. He'd wondered what kind of soldier those bandits had killed and robbed. Charlie just nodded. "Get me a stout rope."
Decius strung a rope from the prow of the boat around Silver's chest and secured it to the saddle. Charlie, holding tight to Lucania, clucked and kneed the animal forward. The stout horse dug in and pulled. Charlie kept Silver guided into the swells, while Decius and little Phillipa pushed and guided the prow over the beach.
Knee-deep, belly-deep, chest-deep, Silver plowed forward into heavy surf, dragging the fifteen-foot boat, lunging forward as Charlie shouted encouragement. Abruptly the pressure let off and the rope went slack. Silver began to swim straight out to sea. Charlie fought to bring his head around toward land. The boat floated free behind them, rocking violently up and down as the sea surged, retreated, surged again. The two Romans were already aboard, working to get the sail up.
"There is not space for your horse," Decius called as the tired animal waded toward the little craft. "He has saved us. I am sorry."
For a moment, Charlie sat frozen on Silver's back. Not take Silver? Charlie turned his head away to hide a sudden rush of grief. He would have died—many times over—without this animal. He couldn't simply turn Silver loose on the beach to be roasted alive. Not and continue to look himself in the eye. What was it they said a man had to be able to do? Shoot his own dog?
I'm sorry, dammit, I'm sorry.
"Take Lucania!"
Decius manhandled the toddler aboard.
Charlie drew his sword and cut the rope between his saddle and the prow of the fishing boat, then handed over his crutch to the waiting Decius. The fisherman dropped it into the little boat without so much as glancing at it. Charlie's lantern, he secured to the rigging, near the mast. Carefully, Charlie slid out of the saddle into rough water.
He wallowed, half-floating, waist-deep in the troughs, nearly chin-deep in the swells and foamy whitecaps. He gripped the sword, then pulled Silver's head down. Charlie stroked his ears, murmured softly to him.
"Hey, fella, you did real good, Silver, you did real damned good . . ." He shut his eyes, trying not to think about what he had to do. "I'm gonna miss you, you big, faithful lummox . . ."
I can't . . .
He'd killed untold numbers of men. But one, stupid horse . . . Ruthlessly, Charlie brought to mind the image of Silver screaming, burning to death, trying to run into the sea, his mane crisping in the lethal, burning air—
With a quick thrust, he cut the great jugular vein.
The horse screamed. Charlie's insides flinched from the sound. Silver tried to rear. Blood sprayed horribly. Charlie grabbed the edge of the boat and pulled himself clear of Silver's thrashing legs. Decius and Phillipa grasped his arms and hauled him aboard.
They'd lit more storm lanterns, which swung wildly from ropes running from mast to stern and prow. Charlie slithered over the gunwale like a gaffed fish and landed with a pain-racked thump in the bottom of the boat. He dropped the sword and lay still for a moment, fighting waves of pain and weakness, then struggled to sit up. He was half blinded by salt water, only partly from the Mediterranean.
When he could see, he found Silver in the water, still struggling. But the light slowly went out of the horse's eyes. His front legs buckled and the frightened sounds faded. Silver finally rolled over onto his side, wet hooves glinting in the lantern light. The horse went under once, then finally bobbed quietly in the churning black water. Charlie squeezed shut his eyes, then groped for his daughter and cradled the sleepy little girl close. He would not think about Sibyl.
"Get the hell out of here!" He didn't care that his voice broke raggedly.
As the Roman fisherman set his prow seaward, Charlie didn't know whether he wept for the horse, for Sibyl, or for himself.