Chapter Eleven

Methos withdrew the needle from the IV line and watched as the drug quickly took effect, Serao's body relaxing visibly and the wildness easing from his eyes. He stood still, holding his patient's wrist, watching, carefully cataloging the line of limbs and face, the rhythms of pulse and breathing as the Valium spread through the man's system. The seizure, if that was what it had been -- and he wasn't at all convinced that it was -- was over for now.

Serao's cryptic words continued to nag at the back of Methos' mind even as he tried to dismiss them as the fevered ravings of a dying man. Of course that's what they were, there was nothing else that they could be. That he was dying was in no doubt, Methos could smell the scent of death on him as clearly as he could see it in the African's sunken eyes. He couldn't find any reason for him to be dying; he simply was. Just not on my shift, okay?

That was a pointless wish, though; it was all his shift from now until whenever he could work out a way of extricating himself from this unmitigated balls-up. No good deed goes unpunished...he thought, his mouth twisting wryly. It was true enough. What had he been thinking? Of course, he knew very well what and more importantly who he had been thinking about when he had conceived of this mad venture -- he just wasn't thinking about that now. He refused to think about that. Wallowing in what couldn't be helped wouldn't do him a damn bit of good anyway.

He sighed heavily and slouched on one hip, tiredly regarding his patient.  Now that the seizure was over, Serao was back to being as inexplicably silent and immobile as before, his only movement slow, even breaths lifting the massive cage of his chest. The dull, sunken eyes stared blankly at the ceiling and seemed to ignore his presence altogether, even when Methos tore open the velcro closure of the drug pouch with more violence than strictly necessary. The sharp noise caused not even a flicker on Serao's face and Methos sighed again and continued on clearing away his equipment.

He was going to run short of supplies soon, he noticed. Even used conservatively the IV fluids in both packs would run out in a few days, leaving him looking as if he was doing nothing at all for the patient and therefore being fairly superfluous. Which was not how he wanted to appear at all.

So, he only had a few days at the most to find a way out. That was okay, he'd extricated himself from bigger piles of shit than this and lived to tell the tale. He would get out of this one too, hopefully in one piece -- make that definitely in one piece. But right now, his body was crying out for rest and as he glanced at Serao and saw that he once more appeared to be sleeping, Methos sank down on his makeshift bed and closed his eyes.

Sleep was slow to come to him though, as Serao's words continued to echo in the silence. Methos wriggled uncomfortably on the packed earth and willed himself to stop worrying about it. 'She comes'...bloody hell.  Who? Boadicea? Helen of Troy? The Wicked Witch of the West? Vaguely amused, Methos gave a small snort of laughter, wriggled himself into a less uncomfortable position and finally and gratefully tumbled into sleep.

***

Dawn came all too soon, barely 5am by his watch when the faint sounds of life and movement stirring around the camp woke him up. Automatically, Methos' eyes went to his patient; more than a little relieved to see that he was still breathing. He yawned and pushed the blanket away, feeling distinctly unrested and unsettled. He hadn't slept well, dreams had plagued him far more than was usual, vivid images of red and black and white, so rapid they blurred, overlaid with the continuous rhythm of a gourd rattle. Disturbingly irritating, or irritatingly disturbing, he couldn't decide which. They were so unlike his usual dreams that he wondered for a moment, in the fogginess of his sleep-deprived mind, whether instead of dreaming of the past as he usually did, he'd been given a glimpse of the future.

But that was crap, of course. He no more believed in prophetic dreams than he believed in ouija boards. If he had any gift of prophecy it had taken its own sweet time showing up and he sure as hell could have used it a time or two before this. What was with him, anyway? He'd left behind superstition with doublets and hose -- probably sooner, if he thought about it, but ever since he'd set foot in the camp he'd been practically jumping at shadows.

It was no way to live and he was sick of it. There was enough to be worried about in the real world without his mind inventing things as well. With a shake of his head, Methos pushed up from the floor and stretched the stiffness from his spine, tipping his head from side to side to ease his shoulder muscles. Serao still appeared to be much the same, unmoved from the position he had been left in last night, so Methos took the opportunity to go outside.

It was warming already, but without the heavy, heated humidity he'd grown used to in Zambia. The mountain air was a little drier, a little cooler, but not much. As he took a second step away from the door he wasn't unduly surprised when an armed soldier appeared at his side -- Cheya again.

"It's all right," Methos told him slowly in Portuguese, "I'm just going for a leak." He turned his back on the boy and walked around behind the hut. Equally unsurprising was the gun muzzle that nudged against his back. Obviously, they weren't taking any chances with him this time. A vague whisper of unease shivered down his spine as he wondered just how much they knew about Tembe's death, and what the repercussions of that would be. He shook off the feeling again as he relieved himself against a gnarled tree. At least that fear was grounded in reality, and that was something, he guessed.

Methos zipped up his shorts and sauntered back around the front of the hut, not even sparing a glance at Cheya. The cooking fire was burning low beneath the three-legged cast-iron pot, simmering what was most likely -- if his nose didn't deceive him, and it rarely did -- more maize meal. He came closer and saw the familiar pale stodge lying lumpily on the tin plates held by the few men sitting around the fire. Dull to be right so often.

Methos accepted a plate of the porridge from a stone-faced older woman -- a different one to those who had been there the previous evening and, ladling a cup of water from a bucket, went and sat in the same place as he had then. And although Cheya followed him, trailing behind like a shadow, no one else actually acknowledged his presence. The small hairs on the back of his neck rose expectantly.

Something was definitely up. A quiet, problem-free period of hostage-hood had always been a bit much to hope for, so he hadn't, but things hadn't felt quite so hopeless the night before either. He still wasn't sure why they did now.

Methos forced the food down anyway, swallowing the lumps past the growing tightness in his gut, his eyes quite firmly fixed on the plate but his attention just as firmly fixed on his surroundings. The sun rose a little more as he ate and drank and the shadows shortened around him, the air warming with every passing minute. He was just chewing the last mouthful when Ruyz appeared from the nearest hut and, catching Methos' eye, strode towards him, his face hard and almost unreadable.

Methos set the plate on the ground and waited. It didn't take long.

"You! Come with me, now!" Ruyz ordered. He was in full uniform already and the peak of his cap hid his eyes from Methos. "Captain Allessandro wants to see you."

The creeping sense of unease that had been lurking in his spine since he had first opened his eyes that morning, began to uncurl and sink long sharp claws into his back. Methos...Kronos wants to see you in his tent.... Methos wanted to kick his own arse for being so bloody melodramatic. Allessandro was no Kronos -- would never be Kronos -- not even if he lived four thousand years, which he never would. But still the uneasiness clung to him, resisting his efforts to shrug it off. Methos snorted and unfolded from the ground, ordering himself thoroughly into the here-and-now. He had more than enough to deal with without picking at long dead bones.

The walk to Allessandro's hut was short and silent, which was as he had expected, and Methos used the time to try to anticipate the captain's next move. He was calmer, more focused, by the time he walked through the hut door. He went into the gloomy interior and came face to face with Allessandro, who was sitting at an old, wooden schoolroom desk.

Methos glanced about quickly, trying to get a sense of his surroundings. The hut looked as if it doubled as both office and quarters for the commander, a low cot lined one wall and an old two-way radio set, along with other equipment on a bench lined the opposite one. The desk was positioned squarely in the center and Allessandro sat on a high-backed wooden chair behind it, his elbows resting lightly on its scarred top.

"Good morning, Dr Booker," Allessandro began with such pleasantly open menace that Methos was almost relieved.

"A little earlier than I like, but you can't have everything," Methos answered with a careless shrug. "Something you wanted?"

Allessandro stood up and moved around the side of the desk, leaning on the edge with one hip. "Leave us, Ruyz," he ordered dismissively.

Methos shot a quick glance at the lieutenant and saw him nod once, turn on his heel and stride out the doorway, leaving Methos and Allessandro quite alone. Methos turned his gaze back to the captain and waited. It didn't take long.

"You led us on a quite a chase yesterday, Doctor. It wasted much of my time to recover you."

Methos restrained the smirk itching to appear at the corner of his mouth. "I have duties elsewhere," he offered, his tone as neutral as he could make it.

Allessandro narrowed his eyes. "Now your duties are here, you will treat Comrade Serao and make him well."

"As best I can," Methos replied, well aware that it was not what the captain wished to hear, but false hope would not do him any favors either.

"And your best, it is very good, is it not?" Allessandro returned, rising from the desk and slipping his machete from the sheath on his belt. He did not look at Methos at all, but fixed his eyes on the blade, running a finger along it with an appreciative sigh.

Methos didn't doubt that the whole show was meant to intimidate, but all the same he answered, "Of course," and nodded his head respectfully.

Silence prickled uncomfortably over Methos' skin as he watched Allessandro from behind hooded eyes. The captain still toyed with the blade and Methos imagined that his men would find the performance as threatening as it was clearly intended to be. Allessandro wasn't to know that Methos had learned the art of terror from masters -- had practically defined the word himself at one time. And it was tempting, seriously tempting, to dismiss this tin pot tyrant as nothing more than a child playing at an art in which he had no real expertise, but there was something in Allessandro that prevented him from giving in to the temptation.

Methos sensed a real threat in this man, a sharp edge of violence and instability ill-concealed by an incomplete veneer of civility. He had seen only a little of him yet, but he had not survived five thousand years without learning to read an enemy. This one bore watching, even given his propensity for hackneyed pronouncements. The words might have been straight out of the bad guy's handbook, but the actions were scarily unpredictable. Unpredictability was always bad. And the damn silence was really starting to grate.

"I should return to tending your brother, Captain," Methos said quietly, stepping back to leave.

Allessandro was on him in a heartbeat, thrusting him back against the wall until the thatch bowed behind him. He had a handful of Methos' shirt grasped tightly in one hand and the blade pressed close to Methos' neck with the other. Fetid breath blew hotly into Methos' face as fear flooded ice-cold through his body. It had happened so quickly that he'd barely had time to breathe, let alone react.

"He is not my brother!" Allessandro hissed, glaring up into Methos' eyes.

"My mistake," Methos said quickly, almost tripping over himself in his rush to defuse the madness before him. "My Portuguese is not very good, I'm afraid. I did not mean brother, I meant comrade, of course. Your comrade." Allessandro wasn't buying it, even with Methos plastering that same harmless-but-idiotic-tourist expression all over his face to bolster the effect. It was obvious that the African didn't believe a word he was saying. But in the next second, Allessandro released him and whirled away, cursing under his breath, leaving Methos to try to re-gather his wits after the sudden and unprovoked attack. Suddenly there seemed to be a lack of oxygen in the room and Methos needed to haul in deep breaths to compensate for it.

The captain turned to lean against the front of the desk, casually crossing one leg over the other. He still held his machete, but it rested on the desk, held negligently in his right hand.  He brushed his other hand down his ragged uniform shirt as if trying to smooth the wrinkles from it; his face, as far as Methos could see it, gone bland and distant. Methos breathed deeply, steadied himself and waited. Another minute passed before the silence was broken.

"Who told you that Serao was my brother?" Allessandro asked, his tone so unaffectedly normal that Methos could have wondered if he'd imagined the explosion of temper, if he trusted his own senses less. But he didn't.

"No one," Methos said calmly though his heart was still going in five directions at once. "I told you, I made a mistake." Questions pounded through his head. Had Ruyz set him up? Why would he? If Serao was Allessandro's brother, then why would the captain deny it? He didn't need to worry about the minefields out there, there were plenty right here for him to step into. And this one was a doozy.

"An odd mistake to make...'irmao' and 'camarada' do not sound at all alike to me. Perhaps they do to you?" Allessandro asked silkily. "Perhaps you are even stupider than you appear?" Methos shrugged dumbly but said nothing. Far better to look stupid than to admit to anything. "But that is unimportant," the captain continued with a shrug of his own. "Come here, Doctor, I want you to look at something for me." He beckoned Methos with an imperious wave of his hand and pushed away from the desk to walk around behind it once more.

Methos followed him, feeling more and more like everything he'd done so far had been a colossal mistake. Allessandro waited until they were both standing behind the desk then lifted its hinged top to reveal a wide, shallow compartment. Methos barely had time to register the stink of old blood and dead flesh before the captain reached into the desk and lifted out a small, dark object, barely recognizable in the shadowed compartment until it was thrust into his face.

It was a hand. Methos had a snapshot of clarity in the midst of his surprise and took in the square brown palm, short fingers and, most of all, the ragged, bloody wrist end, the flesh dried and blackening and the skin curling back on itself. A distant part of his brain wondered why the hell the captain had an amputated hand in his desk, but then he was too busy to wonder anything at all.

"You know what this is?" Allessandro shouted, shoving the dead thing into Methos' face. "You see this?"

Methos backed up quickly, so quickly that he caught his heel on the leg of the wooden chair Allessandro had been using and crashed backwards to the ground. The captain went with him, diving on top of him, still forcing the rank, dead hand into Methos' face as if he wanted to shove it down his throat. And as Methos hit the floor, his head connected with the metal corner of the cot behind him, the thud sickeningly loud over the grunts of the struggle. Pain exploded as quickly as Allessandro's temper, then Methos' vision blurred and darkness engulfed him as passed out.

Methos came to in a world of pain, a foot driving hard into his ribs again and again until he was sure there was barely an intact organ left in the body. Pain was everywhere, shrieking at him to get away, narrowing his thoughts to just one: escape. He tried to roll away to escape the blows still pounding into him, but movement was agony and try as he did the kicks still followed him.

He rolled over once more, managing to make it onto his belly, and then miraculously the kicking stopped. He dragged welcome breaths into his body, although each one was spiked with pain that lanced through his chest. Unable to do anymore, Methos lay there on the floor, gasping, willing the healing to come faster and knowing that it would come in its own time and would not be hurried.

Allessandro was still there; Methos could feel him standing over him, waiting for...something. Methos did not turn over or try to meet the other man's eyes. He simply concentrated on the task of drawing air into his shattered body. That was effort enough. The captain was quiet for several minutes more and Methos could hear the harsh rasp of his breathing close behind, slowing gradually. What was he waiting for anyway? The half-time bell?

Methos tensed, drawing his knees up beneath him to curl protectively over his pain as he heard Allessandro come closer. Time for round two... But the beating did not recommence and Methos almost jumped as something thudded onto the floor in front of him. He did not move to look at it at first, but lay waiting, his heart hammering as he tensed for Allessandro's next move.

He jumped again as Allessandro barked, "Look at it!"

Methos pushed up a little from the floor and looked in the direction of the sound. Lovely... The hand again, in glorious close-up technicolor, three inches from his nose.

"Do you recognize it?" the captain hissed, his voice seeming closer than ever.

"Should I?" Methos whispered through the pain.

"You should. You killed the man that hand belonged to!"

"No...no I didn't." Lying was a gamble, but he was damned no matter what he said.

A foot stamped very close by his side and Methos flinched automatically. "You are lying!" Allessandro yelled.

Methos tried to push up from the floor, tried to push through the pain and face this standing, but a foot slamming into the middle of his back forced him flat. He hit the floor with an oof and felt another rib give way. "You. Killed. Him." Allessandro spoke each word slowly and distinctly, his tone chilling.

Before Methos could form an answer, the foot was gone from his back and Allessandro was standing over him, one foot either side of Methos' back. In another heartbeat his head was yanked backward by a hand curled into his hair and before his gasp could reach his lungs, the familiar press of steel was at his throat.

And the fear that had been idling in the back of his mind since daybreak broke into full roar. All he could see was the images of Djube, his throat slashed almost to the bone, so deep his head had almost been taken off and Methos closed his eyes uselessly against the images. He could die now, really die, Allessandro was mad enough to do it and all Methos could feel was a sick sense of waste and regret. He wasn't ready to die.

"You killed Corporal Tembe, yes?" the captain asked once more, his voice as tight as his grip on Methos' hair.

"Yes!" Methos admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "I wanted to get away--"

"Silence!" Allessandro roared, so close by Methos' ear he could feel the other man's breath.

"I'm sorry," Methos tried, casting about wildly through the fog of pain and panic to find something -- anything -- that would save his neck.

He needn't have bothered. In the next instant the blade was whisked away and his head was released by a sharp shove towards the floor as Allessandro pulled away. Methos' head hit with a bang so hard that tiny points of light floated down in front of his eyes until he closed them and rested his forehead back down on the cool earthen floor.

"The only reason you are not dead is because you are of use to me," Allessandro snarled. "Do not forget that. Next time that will be your hand. And I will not stop there!"

Methos braced for the beating to recommence, but to his surprise, he heard the sound of footsteps thudding past him and out the door. Relief made him sink flat to the floor, panting softly.  It was several more minutes before he'd healed enough to push himself upright.

He was sitting on the floor, dusting himself off and re-gathering his wits while he waited for the last of the fractured ribs to knit, when sounds outside the hut caught his attention. He heard running, a quick shouted jumble of Umbundu he didn't quite catch, then quite clearly in a moment of silence a single voice called out: "She is here!"

The words rung in his ears, hollowly, like a gong struck in a cavern, vibrating through his whole body at a frequency set to put all his senses on alert. Seconds later, Methos was cursing himself for his foolishness and putting it down to sleep deprivation and the after-effects of having his ribs kicked in. He eased himself up from the floor and walked gingerly to the door to see what all the fuss was about. It was probably just a local prostitute doing the circuit, if the truth was known.

Methos reached the doorway and squinted out into the bright morning light, watching the flurry of activity in the compound. Ruyz was slouching against a post, looking as stony as he had when he'd delivered Methos to Allessandro. That was something else that needed an explanation -- what the hell had Ruyz been playing at telling him that Serao was Allessandro's brother? That little piece of information had dropped him in the shit beautifully. And maybe that was why the lieutenant had done it. Methos didn't know, but he was damn well going to find out.

He looked in the direction of Ruyz's stare, watching the men milling excitedly around the bush that screened the entrance of the camp. There seemed more of them today, Methos could count at least twenty and he wondered for a moment where they had come from. Something out the ordinary was clearly happening, so Methos leaned against the doorframe and waited for it to unfold.

At last the small crowd parted, the group splitting in two to leave a clear passage down the middle, finally enabling Methos to see the cause of all the excitement.

Oh fucking fabulous... Someone, and there were no prizes for guessing who, had summoned some extra help in curing Serao from whatever ailed him. Not satisfied with modern medicine, Allessandro was going for the ancient kind as well. A little extra insurance.

A Sangoma...

She strode across the compound, her head held regally high, the red, black and white beads of her costume moving in time with the rhythm of her rolling hips. A hand-woven bag, highly decorated with more of the beading, was slung over one shoulder, bulging, no doubt, with the arcane tools of her profession.

Great, as if he didn't have problems enough, now he had a bloody witch to contend with as well. And the way his luck was going, she'd end up credited with saving the poor bastard and Methos would end up in bite-size pieces fed to the jackals. Still...he was a long way from dead just yet. There had to be some way of using this to his advantage.

The Sangoma drew closer and Methos could see her more clearly. She had the high-boned, taut skinned beauty of so many African women that made age difficult to guess, and her hair, woven into hundreds of snaking braids, was glossy jet without a trace of gray. But her appearance faded away into unimportance as she came close enough for him to see her eyes.

Obsidian, dead and cold and flat, stared back at him, drawing him into a dark, chill place until he forcibly shook away the fantasy. Then, as if a third eyelid moved across her eyes, something within them changed and they were just another pair of dark African eyes looking back at him. Kohl-rimmed and lovely, certainly, but nothing extraordinary. Despite his rampant skepticism, Methos shivered a little.

She took another step closer to him and held out a hand, greeting him in African-accented English. "Dr Booker, I presume."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Continued in Chapter Twelve Back to Main Page Back to Contents