Return (Matt Turner Series Book 3) (22 page)

“Kaleb,” she interrupted him.

His drifting gaze found its way to her for the first time since he arrived, those pale, sandy eyes brimming with remorse, desperation, pleading. It was likely the closest thing she’d ever see to an apology or admission of guilt.

“You’re not picking up a weapon,” she said. “None of us are. Our weapons are in here. If or when this predicament reaches the point where blades meet, what we now plan must already be completed, or it means we’ve failed. We needn’t think further than the blades.”

“Our fundamental concern,” Philip said as he peered out the window to the ship-strewn sea, “I guess we three agree, is the Library. We keep speaking of our members as if they’re all trapped there, but this is only because we depend upon their numbers to salvage the collection. In truth, we could have the Musaeum complex evacuated in less than an hour, our people scattered into small groups, and fleeing south to Naukratis or even Merimba. Everyone can still leave the city. But it’d have to be now.”

“But the Library,” Patra said.

“Precisely.” Philip looked at her, despairing. “Our oaths to the Library transcend all others. None of us took on those vows blithely.” His chest quaked with his next breath. Patra had never seen him so tormented. He continued, “But … I do … I have a family-”

“You do.
Go
, Philip,” Patra said, and not in a way to make him stay or to rend his heart. She had only the Library, and she’d remain to protect it. “Leave now. There’s a reason we’re three.” She turned to Kaleb, albeit less tenderly. “And you may go, too.”

Kaleb rose. The three now stood in a triangle. “If
everyone
stays to evacuate the collection, the Library could be empty in a few days.”

“If everyone stays,” Philip countered, “we’ll all be dead in two days. The children …
everyone
. What if we focus exclusively on …” His voice faded off.

Kaleb stepped to Patra, moving his neck and head to find her eyes. “Whatever we concentrate on preserving, I’m not leaving you to manage this by yourself. I know that I-” He strained to swallow. “If any of us should remain, it should be me.” A thought struck him. “What if we assemble everyone−?”

Patra interrupted, “I sent out word to gather in the main courtyard at nightfall.”

“Good,” Kaleb said. “I propose we announce that it’s left to their choice. Of course, most will flee, take their families, get the children out of the city, but many will stay and help. I know at least half of my boys would refuse to abandon us, even if ordered. We prioritize as Philip suggests, but our goal is everything. Every last scrap.”

“It’s a good idea,” Philip said, “to let them choose. It’s what we should do, absolutely. But keep in mind, even if thirty remain to help—fifty even—it’ll take a
week
to save the entire collection. It isn’t only the clearing of shelves, the loading of carts. The collection won’t be safe until it’s far from Alexandria. Presume we somehow empty the halls. Not a single orphaned scroll in a dusty corner. As soon as the Emperor’s forces arrive—and there’s no doubt they’ll come, be it to plunder or burn—they’ll report their discovery to Antonius at once. Next we have an army tearing through every district, slaughtering utterly innocent citizens, in search of every tattered remnant of papyrus. By the time the first legionary enters our halls, the entire collection must be miles away, and we simply don’t have that kind of time. I say we leave the scrolls. They can be rewritten, each and every one. It’s the reason we three are stewards—the reason our predecessors were.”

“I know,” Kaleb said. “I’m trying to be optimistic. We don’t have many choices. No matter what, though, Philip, you’re leaving with your family. Patra and I will handle the Library.”

Philip shook his head. “No. I’ll see my family to the south wall tonight, ensure they make it out, but I’ll be back here before midnight. Don’t try to change my mind. We don’t have time for that, either.”

Through the window, in the distance, Patra heard the distinct clanks and footfalls of maneuvering soldiers: Zenobia’s army of Palmyrenes.

She needed to speak with Cassius, immediately. And then …
yes,
the Augusta. Patra knew now what must be done, and just then, in her mind, another piece fell into place, and another.

The room had gone silent, she realized.

Patra looked up to see her two friends staring at her.

“Listen,” she began.

Athens, Greece – Present day

Matt knew plenty about The Gray from what the mobster had imprinted on the opal. He knew what kind of man he was, his perceptions of various people and issues, his ambitions, and what he was willing to do to obtain the things he wanted. But Jivu Absko’s last contact with the opal had occurred many years ago, and his imprints on the obliterated gemstone hadn’t contained everything Matt required. If they had, Matt wouldn’t have needed to delve into that steel ring’s long and excruciating history.

Through all the centuries since the world’s most notorious crucifixion, the types of nails used in such executions had been collected by interested parties. Found by chance at construction sites or during targeted excavations, bronze or iron spikes had been extracted from lengths of buried wood, obtained from tombs, or discovered below ground, loose and without contextual artifacts. In the present day,
Holy Nails
rested atop silken pillows inside transparent cases, nestled deep within locally and internationally celebrated cathedrals. Despite Jesus of Nazareth’s presumed standard limb count of four, there were at least thirty such spikes venerated as “true”
Holy Nails
, from Europe to the Middle East, and Matt had personally examined a few.

As he’d explained to the nails’ eager holders, the Romans never had a factory cranking out spikes specifically for public executions, and of the millions produced under the Empire, a tiny fraction were ever utilized for crucifixions. Nor were the condemned interred in the ground still attached to their posts or crosses. With no hardware stores expected in Jerusalem for a couple thousand years, the Romans had those nails pried right out, rinsed clean, and sent off to less gruesome projects.

“If I was trying to track down real crucifixion nails,”
Matt had advised a crestfallen Bishop,
“I’d be looking at structures: walls, ships, fences, buildings, corrals, and such.”
Didn’t exactly narrow it down, but it’d seemed helpful to at least eliminate
the ground
from consideration.

In all his years, Matt had yet to come in contact with a genuine artifact from
any
crucifixion, let alone the
big one
. Until Absko’s ring.

While his ability to prioritize imprint order had radically improved from the days of passive observation and only being able to fast-forward sections after he’d experienced them, there still existed an apparent pecking order within objects. A person’s intense emotions following a loved one’s death logically overshadowed someone else’s afternoon of wheat harvesting. A broadsword blow to the chest topped a nagging papercut. And being nailed to a pillar won out over two thousand years of
everything
else
.

Matt just couldn’t escape it. The crucifixion scene was like a giant, ferocious dog guarding all the other imprints’ secrecy, and the animal was all bite. Attempt after attempt to bypass it had failed. Eventually, they’d left the boat moored to someone’s private dock, walked along a highway to a small marina, and Joss snacked on a tray of assorted fried things while Matt tried and failed and tried and failed.

In the backseat of an Athens taxi, with sunset approaching, Matt pumped himself up for a brilliant new plan: jump in long enough to gather his bearings, pluck another moment—anything else—from the background, and push away the agonizing forefront. He’d done it successfully in the past with painful objects.

“You sure?” Joss whispered as Matt stared down at the ring seated in the jewelry box between them. “Every time, it’s like you’re being burned.”

Matt eyed the taxi driver. He was yelling at a cluster of bicyclists blocking the lane.

“Gotta drive through it,” Matt quietly replied. “Jump across the fire. Just hold the box steady on the seat for me.” She chewed her gum faster. He flashed her a buoyant smile. “Don’t worry.”

He leant his upper body over the center seat, preparing to put his weight into it. The dainty finger touches weren’t doing the trick. His reflexes jerked him back with each attempt. Stupid reflexes.

He nodded a three-count, watched Joss’s hands tighten around the velvety box, and pressed his whole hand down onto the jutting ring.

Agony! Searing! People yelling! Arms tied to beam on shoulders; naked, one wrist already pierced, angry Roman legionary holding second spike against other wrist, the hammer’s smash, bone splintering! Throat erupts with fire. The legionary swears, tries to pull the misplaced nail from the bone, wags it, twists, and finally yanks it out. He roars at me, “Shut up! Another scream like that and I’ll gouge out your cursed eyes!” He places the spike again, hammers it between the wrist bones—tearing and scraping, bones spreading—and he shoves me. “Let it go!” he yells to unseen others, and suddenly the beam’s full weight is behind me, pulling me backward, slamming me to the ground, both wrists exploding anew—

* * *

Joss watched Matt’s hand press down onto the ring in the box.

He winced and hunched over, stifling a cough. His hands blocked her view of the box, twisting and tugging against her grip. She clamped down even tighter. He looked like he was strangling the tiniest fairy. The side of his face screeched down the black pleather seatback between them.

What was so goddamn important in this ring that he felt the need to put himself through this? He was basically telling Joss,
“Trust me. It’s critical that I jump into this venomous snake pit for a few minutes. Oh, and would you mind holding me down as they strike? Thanks.”

Suddenly, he released a piercing, inhuman scream, seizing backward and thrusting his feet into the footwell. Joss panicked and pulled the ring box away just as he fully extended his body, smashing the top of his head into the rear window.

Terrified, the driver stamped the brakes, hurling Joss forward into her seatbelt’s unyielding grip, then whiplashing her back. He yelled,
“[something something] Christo!”
and slammed the brakes again. The car swerved right, and Joss grabbed hold of Matt’s floppy body before his head struck any more hard surfaces. The front tire chirped as it skidded up against the curb.

The driver flung his arm over the passenger seat, ogled Matt, then unintelligible yelling, yelling…

“I don’t know what you’re saying!” Joss shouted back. “He’s obviously not doing this on purpose, asshole!”

She cradled Matt’s head in her lap, stroking his sweaty hair as he trembled. The closed ring box lay tucked beneath her leg.

What the hell? Why isn’t he out of it?

His seatbelt was wrapped around his neck, so she wedged her hand behind his back and probed around for the release. The driver was still yapping, pointing to her door.

She pointed back at him, mocking, yelling over him as she fumbled with the door lock and latch. “Yeah, yeah, get the hell out of my car! No goddamned hurt people allowed! Blah blah blah I’m an asshole …”

“
You
God damn!” he finally managed in English. “Asshole
you
! Go! Go, sneakers!”

Matt finally came to as Joss slid out of the car.

Joss laughed maniacally—more to piss off the driver than with genuine amusement. “Did you just call me
shoes
?”

Matt stumbled onto the curb, babbling. “Pack … pack.”

Crap, his backpack!

She released his hand and jumped back in the car to a fresh stream of crazed Greek. Behind her, Matt’s legs twisted with hers and she felt him fall. Determined, she grabbed the backpack from the far footwell.

“Yeah yeah yeah, I’m going, buddy!”

The car sped off the instant she cleared the doorway, and she helped Matt up from the curb.

“You okay?”

“Too much,” he whimpered, and she saw his grimace. Tears streamed down his face.

“Come here,” she cooed, and pulled his head to her shoulder. His arms curled limply around her back. “Shh, it’s okay. It’s all done. You’re done with that damned ring.”

She guided him to a bus bench halfway up the block, and they both sat. Matt rested his elbows on his knees, sighing deeply. Cars whizzed by beyond the row of parked cars. Window shoppers passed on the sidewalk behind them. On an apartment’s metal balcony across the street, a couple chatted and smoked cigarettes.

Matt wiped his face on his shoulders.

“Man, I’m too screwed up to be embarrassed,” he said with a snotty snort. Joss found a hardly used tissue in her purse and gave it to him. “I’m sure it’ll all come bearing down on me later.”

He leaned back, rolling his neck in a circle, and then hovered reticent fingers near the back of his head, inspecting the swollen area.

He murmured, “Might have a mild concussion.”

“Hey, are we okay out here on the street?” The thought had suddenly struck her. “I mean is it safe? That Rostik guy you were talking about-”

“Yeah, no … one hundred percent safe.” He stood up, twisting his torso each way until his back cracked. “Rostik has no idea where we are until Alexandria, and Markus has zero interest in interrupting me on my way there. Not to mention, this is a pretty random little suburb.” He sat back down and hung his head low, rocking it side to side. “Think I screwed up my back in that cab, too.”

Joss sat and watched her shoes. She wanted to ask what he’d experienced, but figured he’d tell her if he wished.

“Sorry,” he said. “Heard that.”

She popped her palms off the bench seat, turning to see his bare hands gripping the seat edge. He’d read her mind!

“Still getting a handle on my head,” he began, eyes tracking each passing car. “Can’t really filter out noise until I get my walls back up. But not much to share about the imprint anyway. Still unable to get past the beginning. As for what I experienced, it’s hard to say who the victim was. Pain like that sort of washes out everything else. Quick flashes of a wife, nephews, the inside of a little home, but otherwise, nil. Just fear and pain and fear. The soldier’s face—that’s crisp. Plus his name and everything. He’s holding on to the nail in the beginning, so he sorta overlaps with the condemned man.”