America's Galactic Foreign Legion - Book 20: Time Machine (22 page)

“Those bastards!” commiserated Tonelli. “I’m in for being a Roman out of season, and resisting arrest. Prejudice runs deep here in the South. What a joke. I’m not even Roman!”

“What’s the penalty for drunk driving?” I asked, hoping to post bail and be on my way. “Do they take VISA?”

“It’s all the same, your head on a spike.”

“Hey!” I shouted at the jailor. “Let me out of here. I’m a personal friend of Julius Caesar! Let me out or heads will roll. I want to post bail!”

“You’ve still got money?” asked the jailer, interested. “Give it to me.”

I checked my pockets. Nothing. However, from deep in my crusty underwear I pulled a Beretta pistol, aiming it at the jailer. “Let me out, or die.”

“Now see here, what’s that you’ve got, more of your Christian relics? Give me that!”

As the jailer approached, carrying a spiked club, I shot him. He slumped against the bars. Other prisoners rushed forward, stripping the hapless jailer of his keys and sandals. The doors swung open. It was a jail break. Wretched inmates staggered up the stairs to the sunlight and freedom.

For a carefree tourist like me, freedom wasn’t fully appreciated until lost. It’s like not having milk overseas. You take it for granted. As soon as we got out of town, I ordered Chicken McNuggets and chocolate milk express delivered by UPS to the Appian Way, making a feast of it.

* * * * *

We hitchhiked to Sicily, home of baptized Arabs, and Guido Tonelli’s ancestral roots. Suspicious locals directed us to the Tonelli clan compound deep in the hills, where we met Sal Tonelli, patriarch of all Tonellis, present and future. Guido kissed the old man’s ring in a show of respect.

“I can see the family resemblance,” commented Sal. “You have the brooding Tonelli eyes.”

“Bloodshot eyes is more like it,” scoffed a cousin, Bruno Tonelli. “Toss this pretender out. He only seeks our family fortune.”

“We have no family fortune,” argued Sal reasonably. “But, Bruno has a point. What do you really want? Money? Ha! Good luck with that.”

“I have my own money,” boasted Guido, producing several gold coins. “I am rich.”

“You appear to be landless. Without land, you are nothing. How do you support yourself?”

“I kill people.”

“An assassin!” exclaimed Bruno, brandishing a dagger. “I knew he was trouble!”

“Stop!” ordered Sal, pocketing the gold coins. “Welcome, my distant nephew, Guido Tonelli. I will show you off in town to those punk Gambinos. And on the way, I can get my Sunday suit out of hock from the pawn shop.”

“What?”

“The old man pawns his only suit every Monday to get drunk,” sneered Bruno. “Then he gets it back Saturday in time for church services. What a loser.”

“I’ll buy you ten suits,” promised Guido. “Only the best for Sal Tonelli.”

Furious with jealousy, Bruno lunged at Guido with his dagger. “No pretender will steal my inheritance!”

Guido avoided the first lunge, then shot Bruno several times in the chest. The blasts knocked Bruno back into family and friends before he hit the floor. The clan stood in silent awe, waiting for Sal to pass judgment on the newcomer. Sal was speechless until he said, “By Jupiter, how is this possible?”

I finally spoke. “Don’t panic or do anything rash. There’s nothing to be afraid of. It’s just a gun.”

“Like hell!” shouted Guido, still enraged. “Be afraid. Be very afraid. No one pulls a knife on me. Bring a knife to a gunfight, you die! From now on, no one messes with the Tonelli family. There will be no more pawning suits. Not now, not ever!
Capisce
?”

All the Tonellis cheered their new capo, rushing forward to kiss Guido’s Bronx Community College graduation ring.

* * * * *

The Tonellis celebration was short lived. Julius Caesar appeared at the city gates. He demanded Guido Tonelli be returned to custody. However, Guido fled into the catacombs. No one knew his whereabouts. Sal Tonelli’s rival, Corius Gambino, refused to snitch. There were no snitches in Castellammare del Golfo, Sicily. Even the local cohort knew nothing.

“We had that punk Tonelli in custody, but he broke out,” explained the cohort in Julius Caesar’s service. “His buddy, a Roman named Czerinski, killed one of my jailers. The Tonelli compound is on the hill at the edge of town, but they’re like rats. They flee when you light them with a torch.”

“I don’t know anything about Tonellis, except for Sal, who pawns his suit at my shop before drinking,” advised Gambino. “He comes, he goes. I don’t pay much attention.”

Caesar examined the ‘black hand’ illustration on the side of Gambino’s shop, comparing similar graffiti on his internet communications device. “So, this is where the Mafia gets its start?”

“Mafia?” asked Gambino incredulously. “There is no such thing as the Mafia.”

“Destroy this place,” ordered Caesar. “Crucify them all as an example of what happens when you defy the power of Rome.”

“The whole town?” asked Antony. “Surely not everyone?”

“Everyone! Starting with these two idiots!”

No one was spared. Men, women, children, even dogs and goats were nailed to the crosses lining the road out of town. Buildings were torn down and burned. Olive orchards were cut. The city was plowed over, and salt sowed into the soil, completing the utter destruction of beautiful Castellammare del Golfo. Caesar decreed no one would ever live there again, leaving two trunkless legs of stone in the barren desert by the sea as a reminder not to ever mess with Rome.

* * * * *

“I invoke the vendetta against Caesar and all that is Roman,” swore Sal Tonelli as he led his family by torchlight through the ancient catacomb passages to the sea. “But for now, I will go to America and make a new life, rebuild my family.”

“You can’t go to America,” replied Guido. “Christopher Columbus hasn’t discovered it yet. If you try, you will drop off the edge of the world. Trust me, for now, the world is flat. You need a Plan B.”

“Then we will travel by fishing boat to Palestine. I hear it’s peaceful there, a friendly place to raise a family. And, the Jews hate Romans.”

“Not my first choice,” replied Guido thoughtfully. “But the weather is temperate in Palestine, I suppose.”

“We will hook-up with the Christians,” continued Sal. “Their family is well organized and disciplined. Word from Rome is that they’ve been kicking ass in the arena. Later, I will talk to your capo, Christopher Columbus, about America.”

“Let me off in Athens,” I requested. “I’m bailing. There’s a Starbucks in Athens I want to check out. I suggest you join me.”

“My contract is not completed until I whack Caesar,” advised Tonelli. “I’m staying with my family.”

“In Palestine? That won’t end well. The desert is an inhospitable place. Everything there pokes, stings, or bites. The Romans will nail you to a cross for sure.”

* * * * *

“Welcome back to sunny Greece,” greeted Kathy Kalipetsis at Starbucks Athens. “Had enough fun, travel, and adventure for one lifetime?”

“Yes,” I answered. “I’m all vacationed out. It’s time to phone home.”

“Takeuchi left you a message. He won’t approve time travel codes for your return until you kill Julius Caesar. You’re stuck here. Welcome to paradise.”

“What about me?” asked Guido Tonelli. “I need supplies.”

“Especially you. No one returns to the future until Caesar gets whacked.”

“There is no future unless Caesar gets whacked,” agreed Sal.

“We’re going back to Rome,” I decided. “We have no choice but to kill Caesar.”

“Kill Caesar!” we chorused, uniting in common purpose.

* * * * *

Using new building materials and techniques, construction on the Coliseum in Rome finished way ahead of schedule. Julius Caesar ordered the first Olympiad held outside of Greece be hosted in Rome. The event offered perfect cover for Tonelli to snipe Caesar.

Caesar beefed up security. There had been other attempts on the Emperor’s life. At a Walmart ribbon-cutting ceremony, a deranged Persian tried to stab Caesar. Praetorian security shot the fool dead, but a lesson was learned. Security would be beefed up. But Caesar would not be expecting a long-range sniper kill. It could be done.

The games drew hundreds of thousands of spectators. Newly built casinos covered the action on all games. Warm-ups drove the crowd to a frenzy, especially track events such as the hundred-yard dash and leap. Nubian slaves from Egypt sporting new Nike sneakers were the class of the competition. This unofficial Olympic event pitted runners chased by lions. At the end of the dash, the runner jumped over a pit of vipers. The Nubians excelled, especially at jumping over the viper pit. Christians, much slower, wearing Birkenstocks, could not clear this last hurdle. They died horribly. It seemed Christians can’t jump. The crowd loved it, but who knew?

The main event would be the Greco-Roman wrestling. The prohibitive favorite was the undefeated Persian, Dariush ‘Godzilla’ Bazariabi. His nickname ‘Godzilla,’ roughly translated, meant ‘big fucking monster.’ His popular Roman opponent was Russellius Crowius, also undefeated. A lot of money was riding on the match.

We arrived in time to blend in with the huge crowds. The plan was to snipe Caesar from the cheap seats atop the Coliseum in the banner section. Sal got a job at Herod’s Casino in the sports book section, as a cover and to provide logistics. He was doing a lot of business.

“I’m rethinking my vendetta against Julius Caesar,” confessed Sal. “Perhaps I was hasty.”

“Now is no time to chicken out,” admonished Guido. “Remember, Caesar killed most of our family.”

“They were all bums anyway,” argued Sal forgivingly. “Caesar is good for business. I’m making more money now than I ever did in the fishing rackets. Did you know the odds are five to one Bazariabi will beat Crowius in the arena for the gold?”

“So?”

“If we could convince that Persian brute to take a dive, we would clean up. Think of the money. It’s a sure thing if Godzilla will play ball.”

“There are no sure things.”

“Pay off Godzilla, and it would be a sure thing.”

“What about Caesar?”

“Caesar-schmeezer, who cares about Caesar? Just don’t kill him until after the match. I’ll talk to Godzilla myself, make him an offer he can’t refuse. Then kill Caesar if you must.”

* * * * *

Sal bribed his way into the private quarters of Dariush Bazariabi. He found Bazariabi lounging on a Persian quilt.

“State you business quickly and go. I have no time for Roman intrigue.”

“I offer to pay you handsomely if you throw your match with Crowius,” replied Sal, getting right to the point. “There is a fortune riding on the outcome. Your share will be substantial.”

“I have no need for money. Get out!”

“How about women, the most beautiful Rome has to offer?”

“I have no use for women either!”

“Boys?”

“Leave, or I will pop you head like the infected pimple that it is!”

“Baah, baah.”

“What?”

“Baah, baah.” A highly groomed silk white sheep jumped onto the bed with Bazariabi, affectionately nuzzling his hand for a scratch. Bazariabi scratched the sheep behind her ears.

“Now, now, Rhea, don’t be jealous of this Roman whore. I still have time for you.”

“I can set you up in the finest villa in all of Sicily, with plush hills full of sheep with golden fleeces,” promised Sal, upping his offer.

Bazariabi wavered but refused Sal’s final offer. “I am not a cheater! Get out, or I’ll throw you out the window!”

“There will be repercussions if you reject our fair offer,” threatened Sal. “I represent powerful backers. You will throw the match, or else!”

Bazariabi, quick on his feet, snatched Sal up with one arm and tossed him out the window as promised. “Arrogant Romans! You think you’re all that, but you’re nothing! Tomorrow, I’ll crush your boy Crowius in the arena for all to see! So much for the power of Rome!”

* * * * *

That evening, after beating some punk wannabe from Gaul, Bazariabi crawled into bed under Persian quilts. He was comforted by the familiar warmth of Rhea, who was already in bed. What was this? The bed was wet! Bazariabi lit a lantern. Rhea was still asleep, oblivious to the mess. Bazariabi threw back the covers, exposing the bloody sheets and the decapitated head of his beloved Rhea.

“
No!!!
”

* * * * *

Dariush Bazariabi and Russellius Crowius met in the arena the next day. Bawdy Persians in the crowd shouted, “Godzilla, Godzilla!” Both wrestlers were slicked with oil. They grappled, each locking a hold of the other’s neck, pushing and testing their opponent’s strength. Bazariabi lifted the Roman in a high arch while falling backward. However, Crowius slipped the throw and pinned Bazariabi to the dirt. In a moment it was over. Godzilla lost. The crowd roared its approval. Bazariabi had taken the money, purposely losing the match, making Sal and himself rich. Crowius smirked as he walked away, playing to the crowd.