Return (Matt Turner Series Book 3) (33 page)

But Barbillus didn’t.

The city guard did.

Which meant, setting aside the unlikely event the guards had been usurped by Antonius, the city guard had
come
with the intent to massacre. Was Cassius’s change of heart, therefore, the
inverse
of what she’d inferred?

That warm embrace—almost sensual—was it goodbye?

Patra eased down a hall and poked her head into a deep, narrow office. At the other end, a thin sliver of sunlight lined the edges of an exterior door, illuminating a band of floating dust. A wide work table sat along one side of the room. With her eyes still adjusting, she could vaguely discern codices stacked on the table, and maybe some loose papyrus sheets.

Stepping inside, she spotted a dark rectangle in the corner nearest her. A closet. Appearing as good a hiding spot as any, she inched in, probing before her with fingers and toes. She felt shelves on one side, and a bundle of leaning sticks in a corner. Brooms, perhaps. She slid down the one open corner, and sat there in absolute darkness, massaging her sore feet.

Cassius had planned to support her. She must have said something to reverse this. Thinking back, visualizing his face in the closing minutes … It was the vineyard! That’s when he’d gone mute, staring with that inscrutable smirk.

It meant she’d hurt him, and deeply so.

It meant he loved her.

He condemned her and every person she held dear to a violent death, and venom of that potency could only seethe from a broken heart. Now, her students, colleagues, and maybe even her closest friends either lay slashed and mangled, or barricaded inside structures not built to resist a determined intruder.

Their fear suddenly stabbed her in the chest. What hope could they have at this point? Who could possibly save them?

They’d soon—if not already—succumb to the reality of imminent pain, terror, and death. Best to comfort and hold each other, and share a collective strength, wherein, as individuals, none remained.

Even if she were able to rally every willing sympathizer in the vicinity, courage alone wouldn’t transform affluent citizens into the small Army she needed. She’d have to …

Barbillus!

The city guard’s deception hardly served as evidence to the mercenary’s honor, but if she could find him, and if he didn’t slit her throat on sight, he’d surely accept the fortune she planned to offer.

* * *

Vibrant, terraced gardens gave way to sterile dirt patches, aging mudbrick homes and markets, collapsed walls and crowded wells. In Rhakotis, the native Egyptian quarter, Patra asked a Coptic glass blower if Barbillus worked in his shop. Formerly, but not for some time, it seemed. Last he heard, Barbillus was doing masonry in the Temple District.

With much of the Temple District abandoned, it was easy to pinpoint active construction sites. Patra located Barbillus, a bronze colossus of a man—though with more fat in the middle than muscle in the chest—perched atop an ornate new façade, chipping away at the excess mortar between stones.

From the scaffolding high above, he called back to her, “You call Cassius friend? He’s a coward and lackey. He sent you to
me
?”

She yelled up at him, “I’d share every detail of all that’s brought me to you with this offer, but we may already be too late. Just know that your name was mentioned as a fearless warrior with a strong army for hire.”

Barbillus laughed. “Those words were not spoken by Cassius, but I know who
you
are, and I’ll take your word you can deliver on your bid. What happens if we get there and everyone’s already dead?”

“You’ll receive one quarter, and then we’ll part ways.”

“I’d make more than that on this job over the next month, but they don’t take kindly here to a man abandoning waged work. And here they don’t thrust javelins at the work force. Tell me, Miss Steward, is your word-stock truly as sparse as you exhibit? You must think me a foolish man, especially here toiling at the goddess’s house as war looms but a whisper away?”

“It is not, and I do not. Perhaps you alone, wiser than your fleeing competitors, engage your skills in the most erudite of chores: tending to Venus’s shrine as her lover’s sword arcs overhead. In truth, I think of you—with guarded-yet-burning optimism—as my quiescent hero.”

Barbillus chuckled. “Wiser, perhaps, but for the graces of Plutus, not Venus …
‘Quiescent hero’
… If only so scholarly a mind as yours should have plucked the tiny urchin Barbillus from the streets of Ancyra.”

“Then said mind likely would have now reached its hundred and twentieth year of scholarship. Now, if I’ve amply satiated your thirst for lively discourse, those dear to me live or die by our haste. I trust the coin also speaks to you more than parlance?”

Barbillus clapped white powder from his hands, crawled to the scaffolding, and began climbing down. “At present. I’ve two offspring I’d see made citizens through means other than the Legion. If those dear to you have already died, I’ll receive one
half
, and then we part ways.” He leapt the last six feet, landing in front of Patra.

“Fine.” She shook his dusty hand. “How long to assemble your army? As I said, the Library’s doors may have already been breached.”

He flashed a wincing smile. “I probably wouldn’t use that term to describe the group I can assemble as fast as you want. For some strange reason, city residents have been packing their belongings and hastening south.”

“There are two hundred trained city guards in there,” she replied, furious he decided to wait until now to share this news. “How many do you think you can amass?”

“If you want an Army, go talk to your beloved Augusta. Hmm, no. I just recalled how she took them all and abandoned the city.”

What did this man know of Zenobia? Nothing.

Patra scowled. “She was drawing Antonius away from the city. Successfully, if you hadn’t noticed.”

“An army gives chase to fleeing enemies, lest they return another day to catch you off-guard. Call it ‘drawing away,’ call it whatever you wish.”

“That’s precisely what she-”

Barbillus cut her off. “Every second counts, remember? You want me to embark on your mission, or you seek more lively discourse?” She clenched her jaw and waved him on. With a more kindly manner, he said, “You head back to a safe hiding spot, Steward. If there’s anyone in there with a heartbeat, I’ll bring them to the racetrack by the Serapeum—east end. And cover up all that …” He motioned to her head. “In most parts of the city today, Musaeum members have more to fear from Alexandrians than legionaries.”

Vicinity of Ngong Hills, Kenya – Present day

Forty minutes from the Presidential Palace—Tuni’s bejeweled prison for the past several years—a remote, derelict farmhouse lay at the end of a rutted, weed-riddled dirt road. Its paintless corrugated roof and exterior walls had long ago surrendered to rust, much like the property’s scattered collection of discarded vehicles, appliances, and farming equipment.

Yesterday morning, on their way here, Tuni had done her best to remember each turn her professed rescuers had taken. At the very least, she knew the highway and the overcrowded town they’d passed through before well-kept asphalt became less so, transitioning to wider-spread shanties that matched well the increasingly demoralized concrete roads, followed by the final unpaved stretch. Undeserving of
“road”
designation, it was more of an untamed overgrowth through which someone had once stamped tire tracks. Alexander had giggled for the first few minutes of bouncing, and then complained for most of the remainder.

“S’okay, s’okay.” The favorite phrase of the man in the front passenger seat. “Close to here.”

Tuni’s thoughts focused not on whether these men were trustworthy, or wondering if she might be in danger, but on the
magnitude
of the danger. She had asked twice where they were going, neither time receiving a remotely straight answer.

After that, she’d decided the best strategy would be to avoid appearing a flight risk, ensuring more opportunities for escape. If her marriage had taught her anything, it was how to smile in a nightmare. Though her freedom might have come easier—and without the current snag—God, she hoped it’d turn out only a
snag
—if she’d more convincingly feigned happiness with Jivu.

Now, she sat on a tractor tire “chair” inside a sweltering shack akin to a sauna in the devil’s colon. She’d spent the past twenty-four hours happy-facing both her mysterious rescuers/captors, and her confused son, so he wouldn’t be afraid.

She hadn’t yet gathered much info on the Russian duo. 1) They weren’t Russian, but Ukrainian. 2) The younger man—thin, early twenties, curly blond hair, spectacles—was called “Zyana” by his partner, and Zyana didn’t like it.

With evening approaching, Yulian—average build, late forties, crewcut silver hair that made his short-trimmed black beard appear unnaturally black—had apparently told Zyana to go fetch dinner. Zyana replied, pointing a thumb to the car parked outside.

Yulian grinned and retorted, pantomiming swinging across tree branches like a monkey, and laughed.

An irritated Zyana snagged the keys from the cardboard box “table,” and stomped out.

Yulian spun round on the cushionless barstool, radiant with self-satisfaction. “Ah-bee-ZYAH-nah!” he enunciated to Tuni, then raised an arm to tickle an armpit. “Hoo hoo hoo, hah hah!”

Tuni obliged with a smile.

“Zyana real name Stepan, but we say Zyana for like monkey:
ah-bee-zyana
. He say car petrol low, I say find
trees
to get to store. He hates!” Yulian performed the monkey-swinging motion again. His shoulders shook as he giggled.

“I climb trees good,” Alexander said without looking up from his Lego instructions. In the fusty room’s corner, primary-colored bricks littered the floor around him.

Weary of the constant questions and complaints, Zyana had run out to buy books and toys this morning, though no broom, as Tuni had requested.

“Why there’s no trees anywhere?” Alexander continued.

“Why
aren’t
there trees anywhere,” Tuni corrected.

“That’s what I said.”

Tuni inhaled a silent sigh and glanced toward Yulian. He met her eyes with a grandfather’s knowing amusement. She seized the chance.

“Do you have children, Yulian?”

An emphatic nod. He held up five fingers.

“Grandchildren?”

“Many many. Some not from mine, but, you know, like with cousin and marriage.
Mpwa
.” Yulian’s Swahili was even more limited than his English, but he often used it well filling in gaps.

“Nieces and nephews, yes,” Tuni said. “Children are such a blessing, aren’t they? I’m just so eager to show this one the world outside of …
there
.” She scowled toward where she imagined the Presidential Palace.

“Outside where, Mama?” Alexander said. He was always listening.

“The whole world, bubu. You’ll see it all.” She turned back to Yulian. “Do you suppose-?”

“We have to go home first,” Alexander cut in, “or tell Baba to bring Rafiki and my toys. You say I can have one toy, but I got none.”

Yulian clapped his hands onto his knees, averted his eyes as he stood with an achy groan, and moseyed to the front door. Alexander’s interruption had blocked Tuni from reaching her point. Frustration overtook her.

“They got you toys, bubu. Many many toys, and books you haven’t touched. They were being nice—didn’t have to bring you anything at all. And you want
Daddy
to bring you things here, really?”

He glared up at her, pouting, defiant, and nodded yes.

She wrestled herself out of the tire, and onto her feet. “Is that so? Have Daddy come
here
?”

As he watched, she ran fingers over the scabbed gash in her cheek, then probed the wide bruise on the opposite. Bending over, she reached out to touch the bump on Alexander’s forehead—the one Daddy gave him. He recoiled, scowling. He knew exactly what she was saying, even if he wished to forget what had happened.

“But you’re right, angel. You need your blanket and
those
toys. If Baba wants to hurt Mama some more, I’ll just have to deal with it. Your things are more important.” She felt like an evil, manipulative witch, but she couldn’t help it any more than Alexander could help his own feelings—uprooted from the only world he’d known, now in a strange place with strange men; the trauma of witnessing everything before their escape. As sickening as it made her feel, he probably missed his father already.

Head hung low, Alexander watched his fingers rolling a Lego brick over and over in his lap. He murmured something.

Tuni moved as if to find Yulian out front. “What’s that, bubu?”

He mumbled a bit louder.

“I can’t understand you, dear. You have to speak-”

“I said he doesn’t have to come!”

“No?” Tuni said theatrically. “Are you sure? What about your toys?”

“I’ll play with these ones,” he grumbled, returning to his Lego building.

“And your blanket? You’ll wait for me to buy you a new Rafiki?”

“Yes!” he barked.

We don’t yell at Mama, but she’d let it go this time. He’d gotten the point, and hopefully she’d never have to suffer another peep about having Daddy stop by with a few things. Alexander sulked as he continued building, and Tuni went to the window. Through the cracked, yellowed plexiglass she spotted Yulian’s face aglow from his cell phone, ambling about the gravel and weeds, smoking a cigarette as he spoke.

She leaned left to check the driveway. No sign of a returning Zyana, and with twilight waning, he’d certainly have the headlamps on. This was their chance! A final glance at Yulian—still on the phone, meandering a few dozen yards in front of the farmhouse.

“Bubu,” she whispered as she strode to him. He looked up, about to answer. She shushed him with a finger to her lips, and said near his face, “It’s quiet secret adventure time again. Put these down a moment, and come with me. No words now, hm?”

He grasped what she meant—moreso than she’d have expected—and he nodded, wide-eyed, and took her hand. Through the doorway into the house’s one bedroom, across the matted carpet, past the coil-spring bedframe, they reached the rear window. It seemed at first the window had been sealed shut, but a second fierce pull jerked it free, and sent it squealing and crunching over the track. Alexander and Tuni both flinched, and she knew Yulian had to have heard it out front.