I scrubbed the pants and shirts at the river below the falls, rubbing them against the rocks to free them from blood and Dead Guy’s stank. Then, I laid them over branches to dry in the sun. I also emptied the dregs of the canteen and refilled it with fresh water.
When I was growing up under Moon Lee’s tutelage, besides fighting, he’d taught me survival skills, taking me into the woods and leaving me alone for days. I knew I’d need to find water and make a shelter. I’d also learned to light a fire by friction, monitor the birds’ sound for signs of disturbance, and other valuable skills.
Right now, the birds were contentedly living their lives.
Which meant neither Roman nor Marcellious was lumbering through the woods. At least not anywhere close to me…
I crouched by the water to give myself time to think, get oriented, and form a plan. And for the shirt to dry so I could wear it.
Time travel did a significant twist to one’s mind. A year ago, I’d lived in Seattle, Washington, in the 21stcentury. On a fateful day, I’d learned I was a so-called Timeborne. Then, later that same day, I was transported to ancient Rome by my mentor Moon Lee. I’d met the love of my life in Rome, Roman Alexander, a gladiator and Praetorian guard to the emperor. I’d also met his sworn enemy, Praetorian Marcellious Demarrias, whom I believed to be Roman’s fraternal twin.
Now I was here, wherever the hellherewas.
How could I be in one time and place and then in another without knowing where I was or what century I was in? It was like dying and being reborn as an adult. So darn freaky… And I didn’t have the benefit of growing up in whatever culture I was in; no parents or loved ones to guide me. If Roman were here, we’d figure it out together. But I had no idea where he was.
Fingers of despair squeezed down hard on my heart at the thought of losing him. What had I done wrong? In Rome a short time ago, I’d said the sacred words, tossed Marcellious and Roman their daggers, and then… I’d disappeared, but what had happened to them?
I’d thought I’d be so noble in reuniting two brothers, but I’d only managed to lose both and transport myself to who knew where.
Before I could slide too far into doubt and self-pity, I rose and checked the clothes. They were damp but tolerable. I pulled the sturdy off-white shirt over my head and tugged it into place around my stola. Then, I removed my sandals and donned Dead Guy’s boots. They were a little big, but they’d suffice in protecting my feet. I tucked the coat and pants into the haversack strap and took off downstream.
I trekked until I came to a road winding through the trees. A distant horse’s whinny and the clopping sound of hooves had me sliding behind a tree for cover.
Several wagons rolled toward my hiding place, accompanied by men dressed in the same attire as Dead Guy. They must be American soldiers.
I scanned my memory for history courses I’d taken, but sadly, the types of uniforms men wore back in the day hadn’t made the cut by my brain. In truth, I hadn’t paid too much attention to American history. I only knew the Americans wore blue. But from what century? The 1700s? The 1800s?
Shrinking behind the tree, I kept my ears cocked as the wagons creaked and groaned past.
Several men spoke in a distinctly Southern drawl, like that of Kentucky or Missouri.
The horse-drawn carts and soldiers thinned down to a few stragglers at the end. One of the remaining carriages held a man, appearing in his late fifties, dressed in a simple white shirt and gray woolen pants. Grim-faced, staring out with vacant eyes, he didn’t look like a soldier. He looked like more of a captive.
But the last coach held a sight that wrenched my heart.
Two women in their twenties were tied to the wagon and forced to trot behind it. Their high-waisted, sage-green dresses were filthy with grime and torn in places. Both women were crying.
I let out a sigh. Why did I always find myself in situations like this? When I’d lived in Seattle, I’d trained women and kids to defend themselves from harm. Since I’d lost my mother early on to something I now knew as “the darkness,” I vowed to help people fight for their lives if needed.
In Rome, I’d trained a young guy named Anthony to fight off his mother’s lover, who happened to be Marcellious.
When someone was in need, I simply couldn’t help but defend them. And these two young women were clearly in need.
Five soldiers marched behind, in front, and to the sides of the wagons with the women and the man.
I had sixteen bullets left in my gun. I removed my weapon from my thigh, took aim, peeked around the tree trunk, and shot the soldier in the rear through the head.
He flew backward, falling to the ground in a spray of blood and brain matter.
The young women screamed.
His companion lifted his rifle and aimed in my direction. I stayed crouched, out of sight.
I took him down next. Now I only had fourteen bullets. I sheathed my gun at my thigh and thundered out of the trees to remove the remaining three guards. I dispatched them with kicks to the head, face, and belly using my martial arts skills—except my movements were slow and sloppy. It had been a long time since I’d trained, and it showed.
Several soldiers raced toward me.
Two held their rifles aloft, aimed at my head.
