From the end of Chapter 1
Rising from the couch, Lucas stood by a window near the desk. His rich baritone voice inter-rupted Daniel’s thoughts. “I would not want to be a research specimen. Or to be looked upon as a space alien or a merman.” Yet Lucas knew he had the advantage of Daniel’s isolation and lack of ambition. “You seem settled. I will tell you my story.” He pointed to the computer. “To write down.” He leaned against the desk and crossed his arms, as if settling down for a long chat. “It’s time to set it down.”
Daniel considered the opportunity that Lucas was offering him. A one of a kind story, an impossible story, yet true.
Why not? Things had not worked out with Trina, even though he had tried very hard. He loved her very much. He sighed and returned to the present. Here’s something that might give my life purpose.
Lucas spoke softly. “I could get the others to help.” He paused. He had not seen Matt or Alexander or Justus for many years but he would have no trouble finding them and bringing them to Daniel’s apartment. Would they be as willing to share their story as Lucas was? But he had decided. “Yes, it should be everyone’s story. Not only mine.” Lucas had been conscious of his skin zipping itself back together, faintly sounding of Rice Krispies in milk. The slash was fully healed.
Daniel considered the opportunity that Lucas was offering him. A one of a kind story, an impossible story, yet true.
Why not? Things had not worked out with Trina, even though he had tried very hard. He loved her very much. He sighed and returned to the present. Here’s something that might give my life purpose.
Lucas spoke softly. “I could get the others to help.” He paused. He had not seen Matt or Alexander or Justus for many years but he would have no trouble finding them and bringing them to Daniel’s apartment. Would they be as willing to share their story as Lucas was? But he had decided. “Yes, it should be everyone’s story. Not only mine.” Lucas had been conscious of his skin zipping itself back together, faintly sounding of Rice Krispies in milk. The slash was fully healed.
From Chapter 13
When Alexander and Ginevra meet
Ginevra and Alexander had met, by chance, at the Forum in Rome. They were drawn to each other like a morning glory to the sun.
The dark-haired, violet-eyed girl had stumbled into him—her sandal caught on a paving stone—and knocked the two of them into a stand of pomades and gourds. A variety of pomades tumbled to the ground around them, and the two young people—they were only fifteen—scrambled to pick them up, tossing them back onto the display table. Yet he only caught her scent: fresh air and grapes.
Dizzy, now, he had to catch the edge of the stand to stand upright. He was centuries away from understanding how pheromones could affect him but he was experiencing it now. He moved his shoulder bag, the one he was to bring pomegranates home in, to below his waist in front of him. After catching his breath, Alexander had asked, “Do you come here often?”
She glanced around for her mother, who was several stands away. “Each week,” she replied to his question.
“They are pretty.” He nodded toward the ceramic and leather containers, which contained spices and herbs. Some were colorful with feathers or quilted silk. He wanted to say, you are pretty.
“I like this one,” she said, holding a brightly colored one up to his nose.
“Myrtle.” He picked up a white one, round, made of fine leather on a small linked gold chain and sniffed it. “Hyacinths.” He handed the stallkeeper some coins and handed the pomade to her. “A scent that reminds me of your eyes.” His mouth was so dry he could barely speak.
“I cannot accept . . .” She shook her head. Her face was framed with dark curls.
He wrapped her fingers around the object. They gasped at the touch. He knew he had to leave.
“I will watch for you next week then. Here. This time.” He walked away trying to hide his slight limp; his body still was not cooperating with him.
The dark-haired, violet-eyed girl had stumbled into him—her sandal caught on a paving stone—and knocked the two of them into a stand of pomades and gourds. A variety of pomades tumbled to the ground around them, and the two young people—they were only fifteen—scrambled to pick them up, tossing them back onto the display table. Yet he only caught her scent: fresh air and grapes.
Dizzy, now, he had to catch the edge of the stand to stand upright. He was centuries away from understanding how pheromones could affect him but he was experiencing it now. He moved his shoulder bag, the one he was to bring pomegranates home in, to below his waist in front of him. After catching his breath, Alexander had asked, “Do you come here often?”
She glanced around for her mother, who was several stands away. “Each week,” she replied to his question.
“They are pretty.” He nodded toward the ceramic and leather containers, which contained spices and herbs. Some were colorful with feathers or quilted silk. He wanted to say, you are pretty.
“I like this one,” she said, holding a brightly colored one up to his nose.
“Myrtle.” He picked up a white one, round, made of fine leather on a small linked gold chain and sniffed it. “Hyacinths.” He handed the stallkeeper some coins and handed the pomade to her. “A scent that reminds me of your eyes.” His mouth was so dry he could barely speak.
“I cannot accept . . .” She shook her head. Her face was framed with dark curls.
He wrapped her fingers around the object. They gasped at the touch. He knew he had to leave.
“I will watch for you next week then. Here. This time.” He walked away trying to hide his slight limp; his body still was not cooperating with him.
From Chapter 16
The first immortal revealed
To please his father, Alexander needed a few more crocodiles to be sure fifty in all reached Rome. The day was hot and the odor of wet rushes filled the air. Squawking sea gulls flew overhead. Alexander and Mattias stood on a wide log they had felled over the river. Shouting and slinging stones, the two hoped to drive some of the crocodiles out of the water and toward one of the pits.
Mattias slipped and his hands failed to grasp the slippery log. He splashed, flailing, into the water. His cry of surprise ended abruptly as his head disappeared.
Alexander saw a large crocodile, jaws open, lunge at Mattias and clamp sharp teeth across the man’s middle. Immediately the beast made its death roll, its belly upright for three seconds. Alexander solidly speared it in the belly, blood flowed into the water mixing with blood from Mattias, who had not reappeared. The croc disappeared.
“Mattias! Mattias!” Alexander shouted. He counted the beats of his thudding heart. Had he mortally wounded the crocodile?
He did not want to admit it, but the young man was gone. An amorphous cloud of blood had roiled to the surface of the water, now indistinguishable from the muddy river. When he counted one thousand, Alexander knew it was too late, that Mattias could not still be alive. Alexander, sick at heart, turned to walk to shore.
Mattias resurfaced with a gasp. Help! He sprung up as if he were shot from the water. His arms outstretched, reached for Alexander to pull him out. Alexander did, barely avoiding the jaws of another croc. Working to keep himself and Mattias on the log bridge, Alexander managed to pull Mattias to the shore and carry him to a cart.
“Water! Rags!” Alexander was shouting. Men ran to help. The crocodile had firmly clamped Mattias across his upper left thigh and lower abdomen. Teeth marks were clear, the skin punctured and torn. There was little bleeding but that was not uncommon with puncture wounds.
Mattias was talking! His words came is short puffs of breath. “Thought it was all over. The water clouded. With blood and mud. I stopped breathing. Fought with my knife. Then it let go. I came up.” He looked at his wounds. “Oh!” He pushed a flap of his skin back in place.
Two dozen men were standing around. Alexander finally found his tongue. “Praise to the gods. You are saved.” Everyone echoed his words. But Alexander was uncertain. How would these large wounds heal? Bone, innards, evident under laid-back skin. Mattias would never be the same.
Alexander thoroughly washed the wounds, finishing with a flask of wine. He put the flaps of ripped skin in place and securely wrapped the leg and torso. He covered Mattias with a large cloth and rode with him in the cart back to the villa. Alexander held Mattias’s hand and prayed. He remembered how Mattias looked only that morning, whole and healthy. Mattias slept. Nearer home, when he checked under the cloths, Alexander noticed some of the wounds had already closed up. But it could not be!
Even with his known healing power, Alexander never expected to be able to help Mattias—the damage was too great. He should not be alive; he had been beneath the water much too long.
Mattias slipped and his hands failed to grasp the slippery log. He splashed, flailing, into the water. His cry of surprise ended abruptly as his head disappeared.
Alexander saw a large crocodile, jaws open, lunge at Mattias and clamp sharp teeth across the man’s middle. Immediately the beast made its death roll, its belly upright for three seconds. Alexander solidly speared it in the belly, blood flowed into the water mixing with blood from Mattias, who had not reappeared. The croc disappeared.
“Mattias! Mattias!” Alexander shouted. He counted the beats of his thudding heart. Had he mortally wounded the crocodile?
He did not want to admit it, but the young man was gone. An amorphous cloud of blood had roiled to the surface of the water, now indistinguishable from the muddy river. When he counted one thousand, Alexander knew it was too late, that Mattias could not still be alive. Alexander, sick at heart, turned to walk to shore.
Mattias resurfaced with a gasp. Help! He sprung up as if he were shot from the water. His arms outstretched, reached for Alexander to pull him out. Alexander did, barely avoiding the jaws of another croc. Working to keep himself and Mattias on the log bridge, Alexander managed to pull Mattias to the shore and carry him to a cart.
“Water! Rags!” Alexander was shouting. Men ran to help. The crocodile had firmly clamped Mattias across his upper left thigh and lower abdomen. Teeth marks were clear, the skin punctured and torn. There was little bleeding but that was not uncommon with puncture wounds.
Mattias was talking! His words came is short puffs of breath. “Thought it was all over. The water clouded. With blood and mud. I stopped breathing. Fought with my knife. Then it let go. I came up.” He looked at his wounds. “Oh!” He pushed a flap of his skin back in place.
Two dozen men were standing around. Alexander finally found his tongue. “Praise to the gods. You are saved.” Everyone echoed his words. But Alexander was uncertain. How would these large wounds heal? Bone, innards, evident under laid-back skin. Mattias would never be the same.
Alexander thoroughly washed the wounds, finishing with a flask of wine. He put the flaps of ripped skin in place and securely wrapped the leg and torso. He covered Mattias with a large cloth and rode with him in the cart back to the villa. Alexander held Mattias’s hand and prayed. He remembered how Mattias looked only that morning, whole and healthy. Mattias slept. Nearer home, when he checked under the cloths, Alexander noticed some of the wounds had already closed up. But it could not be!
Even with his known healing power, Alexander never expected to be able to help Mattias—the damage was too great. He should not be alive; he had been beneath the water much too long.
Chapter 17
Lucas and the Woman Recruit
The woman, Ecatya, had not won him over. Well, as a woman she had won him over too much so, but as a potential charioteer she had not. Her answers had not satisfied him. She was ambivalent toward the horses. The position of charioteer was a means to an end for her. He had no sympathy because it made no sense to him.
“You do know your chosen path to money is quite dangerous,” Lucas said to her as she shoveled manure into a wagon. It was the eighth week of training. “Women can be successful in businesses.” He was still hoping for Flavia to find a way to help their father.
“One needs capital for businesses,” she said. “Unless you mean . . .”
Lucas was embarrassed. He had not thought of prostitution; he would not want to see her choose that path. “I have observed many charioteers, you know, and the most successful are drawn to it for the thrill and the danger, the notoriety; the money is an extra.”
“You do not think I can be successful.” Her voice was accusing, yet inviting at the same time.
Oh! The gods help me! Lucas shook his head. “I am doubtful. I would not recommend you for the Blues.”
“I do not meet your standards because I am a woman.” She wiped sweat from her forehead with her arm. She leaned on the shovel and looked him squarely in the eye, reminding him she was tall for a woman, his very height.
Lucas’s breathing was affected by her startling eyes, the eyes of ever-shifting colors, bright from the morning sun. He was annoyed with her. Couldn’t she trust his judgment? Why had she turned it into a question of gender? As evenly as he could, he said, “No. I speak from experience.”
She continued to meet his gaze. “I do not take it well when I am told I cannot do something.” Her voice was mellow, yet vibrant. Even though she was standing there surrounded by muck, he still caught the scent of lilies, white and pure. He looked away. He could not continue to look into those eyes, smell her scent, and not overstep his role as trainer.
He pulled his knife from its holder and pretended to examine it, the flat hiltless knife that had been the Galilean’s. He rolled it over his hand, flipped it, caught it, and replaced it in the leather holder, all the while thinking, She is remarkable; what am I to do? In his experience, women accepted being told what they could and could not do. He walked away without another word. The pull toward her too great, he’d had to leave, had to steady his heart.
As he walked away from Ecatya, her shovel bit into the dirt. She did not realize her expression mirrored Lucas’s innermost feelings. Still it was not for her, an ex-slave—something he did not know about her—to think of him in any way other than her trainer.
“You do know your chosen path to money is quite dangerous,” Lucas said to her as she shoveled manure into a wagon. It was the eighth week of training. “Women can be successful in businesses.” He was still hoping for Flavia to find a way to help their father.
“One needs capital for businesses,” she said. “Unless you mean . . .”
Lucas was embarrassed. He had not thought of prostitution; he would not want to see her choose that path. “I have observed many charioteers, you know, and the most successful are drawn to it for the thrill and the danger, the notoriety; the money is an extra.”
“You do not think I can be successful.” Her voice was accusing, yet inviting at the same time.
Oh! The gods help me! Lucas shook his head. “I am doubtful. I would not recommend you for the Blues.”
“I do not meet your standards because I am a woman.” She wiped sweat from her forehead with her arm. She leaned on the shovel and looked him squarely in the eye, reminding him she was tall for a woman, his very height.
Lucas’s breathing was affected by her startling eyes, the eyes of ever-shifting colors, bright from the morning sun. He was annoyed with her. Couldn’t she trust his judgment? Why had she turned it into a question of gender? As evenly as he could, he said, “No. I speak from experience.”
She continued to meet his gaze. “I do not take it well when I am told I cannot do something.” Her voice was mellow, yet vibrant. Even though she was standing there surrounded by muck, he still caught the scent of lilies, white and pure. He looked away. He could not continue to look into those eyes, smell her scent, and not overstep his role as trainer.
He pulled his knife from its holder and pretended to examine it, the flat hiltless knife that had been the Galilean’s. He rolled it over his hand, flipped it, caught it, and replaced it in the leather holder, all the while thinking, She is remarkable; what am I to do? In his experience, women accepted being told what they could and could not do. He walked away without another word. The pull toward her too great, he’d had to leave, had to steady his heart.
As he walked away from Ecatya, her shovel bit into the dirt. She did not realize her expression mirrored Lucas’s innermost feelings. Still it was not for her, an ex-slave—something he did not know about her—to think of him in any way other than her trainer.
Chapter 23
Present day: the new vigilantes
“We didn’t learn it all then,” Alexander said. “The whole picture became clear as time went on.”
Matt laughed. “Clear to you maybe. But, man, I still don’t know why I am stuck at nineteen.” He stood in front of the window overlooking the park. It was about an hour after sunset. “Do you see those boys?”
Justus and Alexander joined Matt at the window. They watched a group of eight or so teens near the swing set. They wore black hoodies with a smattering of white lettering.
“Up to no good?” Alexander asked.
“They’re the ones who attacked Hannah. At least three of them.”
Lucas came up behind them and said, “Come on.” He held out his arms and the other three laid a hand on an arm or a hand, and instantly the four of them were standing in the park in front of the boys. Like an old Western showdown, the four men stood, slightly apart, in a nearly straight line.
“You boys need to learn courtesy to others. No knifing. No robbing,” Lucas said. His voice, a bowed double bass, was deep and even. He knew which of the boys had been in the alley the night he was stabbed.
From the teens came sharp intakes of breath, a sort of gathering together in a group, facing the men. Their hoodies had the traditional peace sign of two fingers in the air, but below the symbol it said, “V is for violence.” Because of their night vision the men could see tattoos on the knuckles of the left hands of the teens.
Alexander and Justus moved six feet apart. Matt easily jumped to the top of the swing set and perched there, a jaguar in a tree. Lucas disappeared and reappeared on the other side of the group.
Finding themselves surrounded, a collective gasp escaped from the boys, or was it a squeal? Echoes of “what the . . .?” and “did you see . . .?” Realizing they were surrounded but not outnumbered, the boys gathered into a tighter circle and kept their eyes on the newcomers.
One boy—he was handsome with chiseled cheeks and chin—chose Justus to speak to: “You’re a little old to be looking for turf, aren’t you?”
“I’m only looking at some boys who think they are smarter than they are.”
Three of the boys reached for knives. At least two had guns.
Alexander said, “You attacked a friend of ours.”
“And me,” Lucas said. The boys’ heads swiveled as each Saved Man spoke.
The teen, who was the leader, said, “Wrong place, wrong time.” His voice was gruff, filled with bravado. Several others chuckled.
Matt said, “True for you, mate.” He pounced from the swing and took down three of the gang in his jump. With that the other three men walked toward the boys. Shots were fired but the men did not stop. Two of the boys slashed with knives, each hitting one of their own. The saved-man attack cracked heads, and soon there were eight teens on the ground moaning and holding their heads and other affected parts of their bodies.
“Stop now,” Lucas’s voice tolled over them. “We’ll find you.” Then the four men gathered together and disappeared.
The teens pulled at each other until they were on their feet and most of them ran home, with-out stopping. Three crouched in the park, speechless for now, but refusing to be scared off—the men were gone.
Back in Daniel’s apartment, they dug bullets out of Lucas’s upper arm and Justus’s calf, covering the holes with scotch tape until they healed. The four appeared casual, yet inside they were excited—it had been a long time since they had been in battle, and the exhilaration they felt from it was familiar and somehow welcome.
Matt laughed. “Clear to you maybe. But, man, I still don’t know why I am stuck at nineteen.” He stood in front of the window overlooking the park. It was about an hour after sunset. “Do you see those boys?”
Justus and Alexander joined Matt at the window. They watched a group of eight or so teens near the swing set. They wore black hoodies with a smattering of white lettering.
“Up to no good?” Alexander asked.
“They’re the ones who attacked Hannah. At least three of them.”
Lucas came up behind them and said, “Come on.” He held out his arms and the other three laid a hand on an arm or a hand, and instantly the four of them were standing in the park in front of the boys. Like an old Western showdown, the four men stood, slightly apart, in a nearly straight line.
“You boys need to learn courtesy to others. No knifing. No robbing,” Lucas said. His voice, a bowed double bass, was deep and even. He knew which of the boys had been in the alley the night he was stabbed.
From the teens came sharp intakes of breath, a sort of gathering together in a group, facing the men. Their hoodies had the traditional peace sign of two fingers in the air, but below the symbol it said, “V is for violence.” Because of their night vision the men could see tattoos on the knuckles of the left hands of the teens.
Alexander and Justus moved six feet apart. Matt easily jumped to the top of the swing set and perched there, a jaguar in a tree. Lucas disappeared and reappeared on the other side of the group.
Finding themselves surrounded, a collective gasp escaped from the boys, or was it a squeal? Echoes of “what the . . .?” and “did you see . . .?” Realizing they were surrounded but not outnumbered, the boys gathered into a tighter circle and kept their eyes on the newcomers.
One boy—he was handsome with chiseled cheeks and chin—chose Justus to speak to: “You’re a little old to be looking for turf, aren’t you?”
“I’m only looking at some boys who think they are smarter than they are.”
Three of the boys reached for knives. At least two had guns.
Alexander said, “You attacked a friend of ours.”
“And me,” Lucas said. The boys’ heads swiveled as each Saved Man spoke.
The teen, who was the leader, said, “Wrong place, wrong time.” His voice was gruff, filled with bravado. Several others chuckled.
Matt said, “True for you, mate.” He pounced from the swing and took down three of the gang in his jump. With that the other three men walked toward the boys. Shots were fired but the men did not stop. Two of the boys slashed with knives, each hitting one of their own. The saved-man attack cracked heads, and soon there were eight teens on the ground moaning and holding their heads and other affected parts of their bodies.
“Stop now,” Lucas’s voice tolled over them. “We’ll find you.” Then the four men gathered together and disappeared.
The teens pulled at each other until they were on their feet and most of them ran home, with-out stopping. Three crouched in the park, speechless for now, but refusing to be scared off—the men were gone.
Back in Daniel’s apartment, they dug bullets out of Lucas’s upper arm and Justus’s calf, covering the holes with scotch tape until they healed. The four appeared casual, yet inside they were excited—it had been a long time since they had been in battle, and the exhilaration they felt from it was familiar and somehow welcome.
