CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN
It had been five days since they’d left the village and Surjan worried about the Ahuskay warriors who’d joined them. They were deadly enough—they all had spears, and some had bows or slings, too—but their presence didn’t make him feel more comfortable. The villagers who had joined them were all in their physical prime, late teens through mid-twenties, but they were having trouble with the pace that the crew set.
Even François, a man in his sixties, was putting the recruits to shame.
It was late in the day and Kareem was lighting the evening’s fire while the rest set up camp and the newcomers groaned about their legs.
Marty stood watch apart from the group on a short rise, kneading his new banner. He carried it himself, folded up and out of sight, and wouldn’t let Badis raise it on a pole for him.
Standing with his spear in one hand, Surjan watched over the group and their immediate surroundings. He shifted his gaze in François’s direction and listened to the man sing some folk song as he prepared the group’s evening meal. The sound was compelling, though the words were strange.
“That’s not French,” Surjan said.
François shook his head. “Breton. My grandmother only ever spoke French to policemen and tax collectors, and she always spat on the ground when she was forced to do it.”
The banker had hired him to see to the crew’s security, and Surjan still felt an obligation to carry out that mission. But the man he’d considered his boss was not the same person he’d first met a few months earlier.
At first, he’d thought it was his imagination tricking him, but now it was undeniable. Nobody would believe now that François was a man in his sixties. The wrinkles on his face, the jowls along his cheek line, they were gone. His belly was gone. He’d regrown hair, and it was blond. He looked at least twenty years younger.
His temperament had also undergone a marked shift. After Abdullah’s death, François had become quieter. Initially, he had seemed morose, which was understandable since the man had lost someone he’d evidently cared for, but now his entire demeanor was different. He was still a font of random pieces of information and wasn’t shy about sharing it, but he always took a step back. He was less assertive than he had been, and preferred to do what many might have considered to be the thankless jobs.
Cooking was one of those. He’d adopted the role of the group’s cook, without invitation.
Had he given up the idea of being leader, and found something else to take its place?
Tafsut approached. She leaned her spear on her shoulder.
“Surjan, let’s fight.”
Surjan stared at the young woman and showed no reaction. The others, or at least some of them, had caroused with the villagers on their last night at Ahuskay. Surjan had caroused also, but then his carousing partner had come with them.
It felt like a breach of discipline.
“Not a love fight, you fool. Spear practice.” Tafsut walked within arm’s reach and looked into his eyes. “Well? Don’t just stand there, let’s fight.”
He had a foot of height on her and was twice her weight. As she swapped her long spear from one hand to the next and back again, she maintained eye contact, showing no fear.
It felt like a breach of discipline, but it was an exciting breach.
“No wounding,” he said. “Only spear-to-spear contact.”
Tafsut took two steps back and twirled her spear like a baton. “I’m ready when you are.”
Surjan swung the butt end of his spear at the woman.
With a loud wooden thwack, their spears met.
With a practiced swirling motion, she pushed his spear away and attacked with an unexpected ferocity.
He found he was smiling, and pressed his attack in turn.
The sound of the wooden spears slamming into each other at an ever-increasing pace began to attract attention from the others.
Using footwork that he’d practiced for many hours on the hot, hard-packed dirt of his family’s yard in Chandigarh as a kid, Surjan pushed Tafsut back. She was as skilled as he was, and maybe more. But he was a little faster and a lot stronger and he had much longer arms. After she tapped him with the butt of her spear on his shoulder, he decided that he wanted to win.
His attacks grew fiercer and harder. When they made contact, she was knocked back.
Men gathered in a loose circle around them to watch.
Tafsut’s eyebrows furrowed with a look of concentration as she worked her spear low and then high, pulling back just enough to block Surjan’s attacks. She began to slow down. The effort was taking its toll.
Then her offense disappeared. Without the reserves to press him back, she was solely on defense, and began steadily to retreat.
After five minutes of constantly fending off his sweeping attacks and having to block his never-ending barrage of slashes, the young woman’s face was beet red and drenched in sweat.
Surjan stopped and stepped back. “Enough.”
She panted for breath, but smiled. “Enough for now.”
Some of the warriors cheered. Marty clapped.
“Well done, you two!” Gunther yelled from across the camp.
The woman kicked at the dirt and looked away.
Surjan extended his hand toward Tafsut and smiled. “You fight almost as well as a man.”
She clasped his forearm with a sweaty grip and grinned. “So do you.”
Marty smiled as François sprinted toward the palm trees a quarter mile ahead. Since having arrived in this version of reality, each of the crew members had undergone changes. For some the changes were subtle, but for others, like François, it was as if he’d turned back time on himself. He looked like a man half of his sixty-something years.
And even though Marty didn’t have a mirror, he felt like a younger—no, not younger, a better version of himself. He couldn’t remember a time when he’d felt as strong, as clearheaded, and as full of energy as he did now.
But he wasn’t sure his newfound energy was up to the burden of his responsibility. Regardless of whether he wanted it or not, he found himself the leader of this growing group of people, and they were on a mission. Every morning he woke to the same repeated dream, and if it was to be believed, they had thirty-three days left before coming to the end of that vision.
What might happen afterward was a question he’d pondered since the moment they’d arrived.
“Woo-hoo!” François jumped up and plucked something from one of the trees.
Marty jogged toward the palm trees as the others began clearing a space for the evening’s camp. “What’s got you so excited?”
François jumped again and snagged a low-hanging branch. “Dates, Marty.” He plucked a wrinkled fruit from one of the branches he’d pulled down and popped it into his mouth. He made a moaning noise and his eyes rolled up into his head. “Oh my word, it’s been so long since I’ve tasted anything sweet.” He handed one to Marty.
The shriveled brown fruit was large, about the size of Marty’s thumb. As he bit down carefully on the end, his teeth pierced the rubbery skin and he tasted what reminded him of a mixture of brown sugar and caramel. It was decadent beyond words.
François continued collecting dates as Lowanna approached.
Marty rolled the pit around in his mouth, trying to extract every last ounce of goodness. Lowanna wrinkled her nose.
“I think Surjan’s right.” Lowanna veered away from the trees and aimed for a particularly lush patch of the grassland, sniffing the air. “He said there’s water somewhere near the surface and now I can smell it, too.”
Lowanna began picking through the grasses, examining the ground. One of the warriors broke away from the group at the campsite and headed in Marty’s direction.
“Marty,” François called, “you need to take a look at this stone.”
Marty turned to see François heaving an armload of date-laden branches over his shoulder.
He began walking toward François when the villager jogged forward and called out, “Seer, is there anything I can do to help you?”
Without looking back, he pointed in Lowanna’s direction and said, “Go help her with whatever she needs.”
Marty fast-walked over to François as he pulled down one more branch filled with dates. The Frenchman tilted his head toward the base of the palm tree. “I figured you might be able to get something out of that. I’m going to go prepare the meal and see what I can do with these dates.”
François adjusted his unwieldly load and walked away. Marty knelt at the base of the tree to study a boulder with a flat vertical surface that looked like a slate chalkboard, marked with glyphs.
As Marty focused on the markings, he heard a shout followed by a splash. He turned in the direction of the noise and saw Lowanna helping the soaking wet villager scramble out of a pool of water. The pool had been concealed by a thick layer of underbrush until the Ahuskay youth had stepped through it.
Lowanna caught his gaze and with an amused expression yelled, “Munatas found the water!”
He shot her a thumbs-up and turned his attention to the markings on the stone. Some of the marks were etched into the stone, while others looked as if they were written with chalk.
The markings struck him as comprising a map.
On it were two deeply etched intersecting lines and radiating outward from that intersection there was a spiderweb of thinner etched lines, each of which led to a symbol. Some of the symbols looked like trees, so maybe they indicated oases, but other symbols were indecipherable. Next to the unfamiliar symbols were a varied number of slashes that looked to be . . . Marty touched one of the white markings on the gray slate and it wiped off easily.
It was definitely chalk.
Marty looked up as several Ahuskay warriors approached, each carrying a pair of clay jugs. “Munatas! Can you come here?”
The young warrior jogged over, sandals sloshing. He was gangly and big-eared, with a grin that rarely left his face. “Yes, Seer?”
Marty pointed at the rock. “Do you recognize this?”
Munatas crouched low and tilted his head as he studied the stone. “Yes. This is a merchant’s tally.” He leaned over and pointed at one of the symbols near the edge of the map. “This is our village. And we are now near the crossing.” The young man turned and pointed to the east. “About two hundred paces that way is a north-south road. I’ve been to the village north of the intersection once when I was young.”
With a surging interest in what the young man knew, Marty pointed at the chalk marks. “If the symbols are villages, what are these markings for? Some villages have none, some have multiple.”
“Oh, that’s the tally. They are marks for other merchants to know whether or not a village has been visited recently. This stone tells merchants where to go next, otherwise a merchant would waste a lot of time going to villages who don’t yet need his products.”
Marty stared at the map, noting which villages had more marks than others. “So, when a merchant decides to visit a village, he places a mark on the stone?”
“Yes. Merchants talk, Seer. How else could they be merchants? Do they not talk in your land?”
“They do.” Marty nodded. “What if it rains? Or animals rub against the stone and erase the marks?”
The villager shrugged. “I’m not sure. I guess they just have to visit the village and risk wasting some time. But some talking is better than no talking.”
Marty grinned at the creativity involved in solving such a basic problem. How do you know what village is most likely to need a merchant’s attention without being able to reach out and call them? Such a simple thing had to be a huge boon to a merchant’s daily travel.
He pointed at the tablet, dragged his finger from west to east, and asked, “Do you recognize any of the places ahead?”
Munatas shook his head. “Other than the one village I visited as a child, I’ve never been farther from home than we are now.”
Marty motioned toward some of the others who were filling jugs with water. “Have they?”
The villager shook his head. “I doubt it. My father’s uncle’s wife’s brother is a merchant and we were visiting him. The rest of my people are all farmers. They only travel long distances to get a bride, or to visit a holy place.”
“Well, thank you for the help.” Marty pointed at the jugs the young man was carrying. “That’s all I needed, you might want to put those jugs to good use.”
“You are very welcome, Seer.” Munatas smiled and walked to where Lowanna was directing the villagers on filling the jugs.
Marty looked down at the tablet, examined the markings of a few villages ahead, and wondered what they might run into.
Marty nibbled on the freshly baked date bread that François had prepared and savored the chewy bits of sweet dates. The tiny pieces of chopped fruit reminded him of a hearty, full-bodied raisin. It was almost sunset and the shadows were growing ever longer as the group finished their meal.
Looking across the camp he spotted the tall Sikh sitting cross-legged with his food bowl in his lap and wiping up whatever was left with a piece of flatbread.
Sitting next to him was the female villager who’d taken an interest in the ex-soldier. Marty chuckled as he watched Surjan stand, the woman mimicking his every move.
With his stomach full, Marty opened his pack and removed the bundle of flatbread he’d saved for traveling. He probably should have eaten it instead of the fresh date bread, but the temptation of eating something with a little sweetness had been too much.
Unwrapping the bread from his pack, he found mold on one of the pieces. With a sigh, he pulled that one out and inspected the rest. They seemed fine and he rewrapped both the fresh and semi-stale bread.
Marty picked up the moldy bread and scanned the camp until he found François fumbling with something in one of the two packs he carried.
He walked over to the Frenchman, sat next to him, and handed him the bread. “You still using the moldy bread?”
François tilted the bread at an angle and looked closely at the mold. With one hand he held the bread; in the other was a small stick that he used to rub away a layer of the mold.
“What are you looking for?” Marty asked.
“Well, since we don’t exactly have a microscope or any of the normal ways to isolate the penicillium mold, I’m scraping away the stuff that doesn’t look right, leaving just the bright green or blue-green mold.”
“And that’s the color of what turns into the antibiotic we all know and love?”
François made a so-so motion with his hand. “It’s the best I can do given the circumstances. I’m trying to concentrate some of this and I’ll do some testing later to see if I can isolate the right strain of the good mold.” He opened a smaller pack—inside was a collection of bread, all of which was covered with greenish mold.
“Do you think what you’re doing could work?”
“Of course.” The Frenchman carefully deposited Marty’s bread into the pack and closed it once again. “I’ve actually done this before, ages ago . . . or ages from now, if you prefer. Let’s hope we don’t need it, because I’m sure it’ll taste horrible.”
Marty stared at the financier and shook his head. “You’ve made antibiotics before? How? Why?”
François looked over at him and smiled impishly. “I wasn’t always digging in the dirt, you know.”
“Gunther said you spent some time at school before becoming a banker. Where did you study?”
“Ah, well that’s a simple question with a complicated answer. I did my undergraduate work at the California Institute of Technology, mainly focused on astrophysics.”
Marty stared dumbfounded at the man. “You studied physics at CalTech? So, how did that lead you to growing antibiotics?”
“Astrophysics, to be precise.” François wagged a finger in his direction. “And to be honest, I’ve lived a privileged existence, so for me school was an escape from being a responsible adult. I was sort of a professional student from the time I was eighteen until I was about forty. Somewhere along the way I dabbled in the biological sciences.”
“Twenty-two years? Good lord, how many degrees did you end up dabbling for yourself?” Marty stared.
“I didn’t earn nearly as many degrees as you might think. I wasn’t really looking for the degrees themselves, I was looking for knowledge. You know, audit this seminar, enroll in that class . . . In some cases, the school wouldn’t let me take certain courses without taking a list of prerequisites. So, I suppose the degrees came more by accident than on purpose. Unlike you, Dr. Cohen, I never got a PhD in anything. Did a bunch of business school courses, which eventually led to me becoming an investor. Several bachelor’s level degrees, a master’s in chemistry, and I suppose I’m ABD in astrophysics as well.”
ABD was shorthand for “all but dissertation,” which meant that François had taken all the coursework necessary for a doctorate, but hadn’t completed the requisite dissertation.
“I suppose in that mix was a biology class or two?”
François grinned. “Probably. Oh, and a few metallurgy classes. That was a lot of fun. I have a nice forge at my home outside of Paris. I know this all sounds eccentric, but I was enjoying myself, and I figured what better thing is there but to learn as much as you can and then try to use it.”
“This is what you meant by jack-of-all-trades in science and engineering,” Marty said.
“That, and I can cook.” François leaned closer to Marty and whispered, “I never thought I’d get a chance to do what we’re doing now. I have so many thoughts about what we might be going through . . . there’s something very wrong about what’s happening to all of us. Marty, I’m sure others have told you, but you look fantastic. You easily look ten years younger despite all that we’ve been through. And I know”—François raked his fingers through his blond hair—“I can’t see myself in a mirror, but you all tell me I’m looking like a kid again. Hell, I’ve got more hair up top now than I did when I was forty.”
Marty frowned at the thought he looked younger. Nobody had told him anything, but he certainly felt better in almost every conceivable way than he had in years. “Do you have any theories about what we’re going through?”
He shrugged. “Somehow our bodies are repairing themselves.” François held up his hand as Marty opened his mouth. “An example I haven’t already shared. Ages ago I tore my meniscus in a skiing incident. It never fully healed and it hurt like a bugger. But that ache is gone. In fact, it was gone within a day or so of us arriving to this crazy situation we find ourselves in. Given the short period of time that it took for me to feel the difference, it’s not what we’re eating. And I fail to understand how it could be the air or the water.”
“I suffered from fatigue,” Marty said. “Vanished.”
“You see?”
“Well, what could it be?” Marty had been pondering the same question for a while.
François opened and closed his hand and then showed the palm of his right hand. “Do you remember that burn we all had?”
“The one from the ankh? It went away pretty quickly.” In fact, Marty couldn’t remember the burn bothering him after the first few minutes.
“Yes. And how it looked like the gold had drained from the ankh into our hand? Anyway, I suspect that some of the symptoms we’re experiencing are probably from whatever that gold stuff was.” François took on a serious expression. “Think about it. We all saw the golden ankh. We all felt it do something to us. And we’re all seeing changes.” François leaned back and looked up into the darkening sky. “But this is all for the best?”
Marty laughed, a hollow sound. “It seems pretty premature to make that call.”
François shrugged. “I’ve always believed in God, but it was almost as an academic thing. I chose to believe because there are some things I don’t want to be left to chance. Either way, I’m a believer in a higher power, and I don’t think he or she or it would have put us into this situation without a reason.”
“You believe in destiny?” Marty asked.
“Maybe. Also, I believe in purpose, which is not exactly the same thing. Remember the tablet you read? It talked about a battle. That maybe we’re being tested.”
“To what end?” Marty frowned. “It certainly couldn’t be the fate of humanity . . . I know the tunnel made it sound like the Apocalypse, but how could that even be possible?”
“It could be the fate of humanity,” François said. “That might be exactly what’s at stake. These Sethians, why do we fight them?”
“They fought us first,” Marty said.
“And?”
“They’re evil,” Marty said. “They enslave humans and eat our livers.”
“And in this world, if they’re not stopped . . . might they destroy the human race?”
Marty hung his head. “They might.”
“There you go, then.” François shrugged. “We’re saving the human race, we the dig crew together with this little host we accidentally recruited. And something important to that quest is supposed to happen in thirty-three days.”
Marty snorted. “They’re not much of a host.”
François nodded. “Not yet.”