Changing of The Guard 2: The Ninth Chevron
Changing of The Guard 2
The Ninth Chevron
By Ecolea
Summary: An important discovery in the Egyptian desert leads SG-1 on a dangerous mission to save the Earth. Caught between the man he was and the man he is, can all of Methos' skills and knowledge help the team survive, or will that be his undoing?
Prologue
Reconnaissance Mission
Planet P7X4238
"Well they certainly weren't very friendly," Jack O'Neill muttered sullenly, holding a thick square of gauze to his forehead where a small stone had hit him.
"I told you they wouldn't be," Methos shrugged, rubbing his shoulder.
The rock hadn't been very big, but whoever had thrown it had put their all into the gesture. A few shots from a zat gun and the attendant electrical show that went with it had frightened the rest of the villagers off, but not before they'd done some damage, however slight that was.
"How did you know?" Samantha Carter asked, easing a knot out of her thigh.
"Call it deja vu, Major," Methos smiled grimly. "I sort of knew their ancestors."
Daniel Jackson looked up from where he knelt over his pack. "I thought I recognized the clothing style. Early Mesopotamian, right?"
"Very early," Methos agreed. "Pre-bronze age, in fact."
"Must have been caught up in a Goa'uld slave run," O'Neill commented, checking the gauze to see whether the flow of blood had stopped. "Good enough," he mumbled, tossing the pad aside. "Come on, let's get back to the gate. Teal'c!" he called and the dark skinned Jaffa, who'd been guarding the clearing while they saw to their wounds came over. "Take point," he ordered as he stood. "Carter, watch our asses."
"Yes, sir," she responded as they moved out.
Methos fell in beside O'Neill and Daniel, also keeping an eye out for
any villagers who might have gotten their courage back. He doubted it,
but there was always a first time.
They'd walked about half a mile before Daniel finally spoke up. "Deja
vu, huh?" he asked softly. "How many times did it happen?"
"Enough," Methos responded lightly. "People weren't very friendly
towards strangers in those days. Not if they looked substantially
different from what they imagined a normal human should look like. You
couldn't even call it racism. It was just otherness that was
frightening."
"What did you do?"
"What any sensible being would," Methos shrugged. "I hid. Found some
nice comfy caves and stayed well away from everyone."
Daniel looked shocked. "For how long?"
"I don't know," Methos admitted with a dismissive shrug. "A few
hundred years, maybe more. I didn't keep track. It's all a sort of
blur to me now. Just hunting for food and trying to stay alive,
mostly."
"So you knew you were Immortal?"
Methos sighed, finally giving into the idea that the questions
wouldn't stop until something else distracted Daniel. "I knew I was
different, but I didn't know why. Five thousand years ago I had no
memories, remember?"
"Right," Daniel nodded. "So, how did you find out?"
"The same day I took my first head," he murmured, remembering the
moment. "I was fishing."
"Fishing?" Jack asked, suddenly interested.
Methos grinned. The colonel had been listening, but unlike Daniel
never dreamed of asking prying, uncomfortable questions. "Not for
sport, for food. The lake wasn't very big and it was close to one of
the villages I avoided, but I wanted some water reeds for making rope
and I was hungry, so I fished."
"What happened?" Daniel asked as they started to climb one of several
hills that led back to the gate.
"A man showed up. Not much different from the villagers in looks, but
he had an ax. A very big bronze ax. He shouted something to the effect
that he was going to cut off my head and swallow my soul, which as you
can imagine rather shocked me. I was used to sticks and stones --
being driven away -- although one village headman decided he wanted to
eat my demon heart which was what made me hide in the first place. But
no one had ever just come out and said they were going to kill me
without reason. And he wasn't frightened of me, which I found
puzzling." Not to mention, he thought wryly, that his stomach had been
twisted in knots and his head buzzing so loudly he'd though he'd lose
his mind.
"Well, he obviously didn't take your head," O'Neill pointed out.
"No," Methos agreed. "He might have had an ax, but I had a fishing
spear -- and I wasn't shy about using it. Idiot never even got close."
"Then you took his head," Daniel surmised.
"I'd like to say yes," Methos grinned ruefully. "To say that I stood
there all proud and manly thinking, 'Take my head, will you?! I'll
show you, pond scum!' But I was just as terrified of him as the
villagers were of me."
"Why?" O'Neill asked, surprised.
"I'd never seen bronze before. And he hadn't been the least bit afraid
of me. I knew I wasn't a demon, but maybe he was. When I finally
pulled myself together and got my spear out of his chest I stopped to
look at the ax. He revived while I was examining it and I was so
startled... I mean, he came back to life just like I did and he'd
already said he wanted to eat my soul. So, I hit him with it. And
that's when my fear turned to anger and I chopped off his head along
with some other bits and pieces."
"Sounds messy," O'Neill grimaced.
"Extremely," Methos allowed. "But then, what did I know? I thought if
I hit it enough times it would stay down. And somewhere in there his
Quickening showed up and I thought, 'Run!' So I did, but it caught me.
After that," he shrugged. "I had some of his memories and I knew what
I was. And what I was supposedly supposed to do."
"Not a very pleasant introduction to Immortality," Daniel commented
softly as they reached the Stargate.
"No," Methos agreed, watching Carter punch in the address home. "But
it got me out of those damn caves. And no one threw stones at me
anymore -- because now I had a big bronze ax and I wasn't shy about
using it."
To one side of him, Jack was snickering, while Daniel looked appalled.
The gate opened and they headed through. Another mission accomplished.
Sort of.
Part One
Chapter 1
"That was great!" O'Neill shouted as they left the arena in Colorado
Springs. Behind them a huge neon sign blinked, 'In Concert! Bruce
Springsteen and the E Street Band! One Night Only!'
"Yeah, thanks, Adam," Daniel grinned. "At least this time we didn't
have to hitchhike."
Methos rolled his eyes, looking over his shoulder to where Samantha
and Dr. Fraiser followed. Beside him, Teal'c was still rubbing his
ears, but smiling. "I can't believe you've worked together this long
and only just discovered there was one thing you all had in common."
"It's that close knit fraternity thing we've got going," Jack remarked
as he led the way to the parking lot. "Head banging doesn't generally
come up at the debriefing."
"Guess not," Methos grinned as Samantha suddenly smiled in his
direction. A little of the ice between them seemed to have thawed, he
thought relieved. It wasn't exactly bribery, but getting his hands on
six front row seats to the hottest ticket in town had been a stroke of
genius. More importantly, Carter was looking at him as something more
akin to human and less like a potential science project. And if
watching him dance and scream with 30,000 other music lovers was what
it took to get him off her list of things to do, Methos was just as
happy to do it.
"Food?" Jack asked a few minutes later as everyone climbed into the
van he'd borrowed.
A chorus of "Yeah!" with accompanying nods greeted his suggestion.
"Okay. Where to?"
"Let's try that new place," Samantha suggested. "Bellinni's, over on
Ninth. One of the techs mentioned they had a great menu."
"The one that's got it's own micro brewery?" Methos asked. He'd been
meaning to check the place out, but had been too busy getting his new
apartment in order between missions.
Daniel laughed as Carter nodded. "You never could pass up a beer."
"Not a decent one at any rate," Methos agreed. "Or the occasional fine
wine. Not to mention a good sherry or glass of properly aged whiskey,
brandy, or bourbon."
Dr. Fraiser cleared her throat. "Unless someone mentions the words
designated driver," she threatened cheerfully. "I'm going to schedule
all of you for a liver biopsy."
"That's me," O'Neill raised his hand. "Keep your scalpel sheathed,
doc."
"So it's Bellinni's," Samantha grinned. "Take Main to--"
"I know how to get there, Carter," O'Neill interrupted in exasperation
just as his cell phone rang. "Damn," he muttered, fishing it out of
his jacket.
He answered, frowning as he listened. "Yes, sir. We'll be there in
half an hour." O'Neill snapped it shut, slipping it back into his
pocket. "Sorry, kids," he told them, turning in the opposite direction
from where they'd planned to go. "We're back on the clock."
"What's up?" Daniel asked.
"One of our satellites picked up something in the Egyptian desert," he
explained briefly. "Outline makes it look to be a Goa'uld transport
ship. But nobody's sure."
"Why not?" Methos asked, surprised.
O'Neill shrugged. "Guess we'll find out, won't we?"
***
"This is familiar," Methos grumbled as he stepped out of the small
passenger jet and onto the tarmac at the airfield in Cairo.
"That's my line," O'Neill muttered as he came from behind. "God, I
hate commercial flights."
Methos grimaced as they waited for the rest of the team then followed
the other passengers to customs. They'd taken the long route to Egypt.
A military transport had left them in Denver where a connecting flight
brought them to Chicago. From there they'd flown to Athens, switched
carries to board yet another plane to Alexandria and then another,
smaller jet to the local airport in Cairo. "I still say we should have
flown O'Neill Airlines," he sighed. "But then why listen to me? What
do I know about the desert?"
"This isn't about the desert," O'Neill reminded him. "It's about
following the letter of the law--"
"If not the spirit."
"--of our little agreement with the Russians," O'Neill finished. "They
shut down their Stargate and we share whatever knowledge we gather
through ours."
"And since this mission technically has nothing to do with the
Stargate," Methos added with a wry twist of his lips. "Your government
feels safe playing fast and loose with the terms of the agreement.
Because, as we all know, the Egyptians are allies of the Russians. I
do get it, Jack. I just don't happen to agree. The free flow of
information is important for a free society to flourish. "
"This isn't about information. It's about tactics. It was a tactical
decision to go in undercover. And who says we won't share?"
"No one, Jack. Forget I even mentioned it."
"Mentioned what?" O'Neill grinned as they entered the main airport
building and lined up.
Customs was a hassle, but they got through it and Methos was simply
relieved to have his sword back and quite content to let Daniel take
care of the petty details like taxis, hotels, currency exchanges and
what not. An hour later they were safely ensconced in a moderately
priced, yet comfortable suite at one of the less expensive hotels.
Daniel divvied up the keys and gave out the room assignments. Carter,
of course, had her own bedroom, while Teal'c and O'Neill took the back
room that overlooked the inner courtyard. He and the Immortal would
take the front room with its grand view of the pyramids.
Methos tossed his bag on the floor beside the bed nearest the door and
threw himself down on the mattress, sighing with relief as a cool
breeze from the air conditioner caressed his skin.
"You know," he drawled, closing his eyes as Daniel came in. "You might
have let Jack and Teal'c take the room with the view. Rank should have
its privileges."
"Jack hates the pyramids," Daniel said as he started to unpack. "They
remind him of what they're bases for. Goa'uld ships. And Teal'c
doesn't care. Besides," he added quietly. "I thought you might
appreciate it."
Methos laughed softly. "Old home week? Not me. Never had much use for
pyramids. Interesting structures, but I remember my first view of them
when they still had their limestone facings and the priestly caste
reigned supreme along the Nile."
Daniel paused and waited, but Methos remained silent. "So? What did
you think of them that first time?"
"Incredible. Huge. Grandiose. Monuments to the gigantic egos of dead
men who deserved much less than they thought they were worth.
Although," he added thoughtfully, finally opening his eyes to stare at
the ceiling. "I did like Hatshepsut. She certainly deserved to be
remembered. Even if she did look a bit silly in that beard all the
pharaohs wore."
"You knew Hatshepsut?" Daniel asked, quietly stunned.
Methos shook his head and sat up. "Nope. Saw her once in a procession
though. She was fairly old, but her eyes were piercingly bright --
made me think of crocodiles floating in the river on a moonlit night.
Beautiful and deadly in a horrific sort of way."
In silence, Daniel watched as Methos removed his sword from its travel
case and carefully laid it under the bed.
"Uh, is there something going on here that I'm missing?" he finally
asked.
"No more than usual," Methos grinned and toed off his sneakers.
Daniel nodded slowly. "Jack won't let anything happen to you, Adam.
Not even if he has to risk his own life. And neither will I."
"Thank you," he answered sincerely. "That's a lovely sentiment. But
I'll warn you now. Never interfere in what I am or what I might have
to do."
"But it's sick!" Daniel responded vehemently.
"Perhaps it is," Methos told him mildly. "But it's our way and I
accept it. Now, I'm going to take a very long, very hot shower. Why
don't you order everyone up some room service."
Daniel shook his head as the door closed behind Methos and he went to
the phone. He would never understand how anyone, least of all someone
as seemingly well balanced as his friend, could accept genocide as a
way of life. On the other hand, what choice did he have?
***
An hour later, feeling refreshed and relaxed in a clean pair of jeans
and a light cotton shirt, Methos wandered barefoot into the central
living room following the scent of food. He smiled appreciatively as
he lifted the various tray covers, finding a good mix of traditional
Egyptian foods. He filled a plate with spicy lamb stew and flat bread,
grabbed a bottle of Egyptian beer then found the remote, turned on the
television and started flipping around the satellite.
"Anything good on?" Samantha asked as she came out of her room,
dressed similarly in jeans and a tee shirt with her hair still
slightly damp.
"Nope," he sighed and shut it off. "Ten thousand years of civilization
and we're left with Leave it to Beaver and I Love Lucy reruns.
Whatever happened to art?"
"I think it got lost somewhere between Bigfoot: Man or Myth and Big
Rigs: The Accidents We Love To Watch."
Methos laughed and pointed to the dinner cart. "Try the lamb. It's
excellent."
She did as he suggested and curled up on the love seat across from him
to eat. "This is good," she said after taking a tentative bite. "My
mom used to make something similar except with beef."
Methos nodded. "Modern Greek cooking."
"Dad was stationed in Athens for a year," she agreed.
"So, where is everybody?" Methos finally asked as he put his plate
aside and settled back with his beer.
Between bites Samantha responded. "Colonel O'Neill's at the embassy
getting our gear."
Methos nodded. That would be the classified stuff and ordinance they
couldn't take on a commercial flight.
"Teal'c's meditating, and Daniel's off to look up an old colleague
whose working on an archaeological dig not far from the coordinates
the satellite identified."
"Trying to find out if he's seen anything unusual in the area," Methos
surmised.
"She," Carter corrected with a brief nod. "From what I gather they
were pretty close for a while. He's hoping to wrangle an invite for us
out to the site."
"Whatever for?" Methos asked, getting up from his seat to stretch and
make his way over to the tall French doors which dominated the room.
The late afternoon sun lit the Nile and across her gleaming surface
lay the distant pyramids of Giza.
"Cover," Samantha explained. "The colonel wants to rent a jeep to take
us out there. As long as it looks legitimate at the start, he figures
we can detour and head anywhere we want."
Methos nodded absently and stepped out onto the balcony. It was a good
plan and he didn't doubt that Daniel would wrangle his way back into
his old flame's good graces. The boy could be positively charming when
he recollected he was a man and not a human history machine. Behind
him, Methos heard the quiet clink of china as Carter put down her
plate and the soft whisper of cloth as she joined him on the terrace.
For a long time they stood quiet, just watching the sun lowering in
the distance, until finally she spoke.
"What's it like to watch the world change?" she asked softly.
Methos gave her a puzzled look, not quite certain what she really
wanted to know.
"I mean," she explained, managing to look vaguely embarrassed as well
as extremely curious. "I can calculate the changes in the atmosphere,
the geological shifts, all the variables and differentials of space
until I know what stars were where and when and what it all must have
looked like, but to see it all change in one lifetime... It's hard to
imagine."
Methos smiled kindly. "I'm not sure I can answer that. I'm not sure
anyone really can. I guess it's like reading a book. The first page
pulls you in and you just keep on from there, absorbing what comes.
Some of the chapters are interesting, some of them not, but there's
always another."
Her brow furrowed slightly as she thought about that. "But what do you
see when you look out there?" Samantha nodded toward the monuments in
the distance.
"Same as you," he shrugged and followed her gaze. "They're a bit more
tattered and worn from my point of view, but still essentially the
same. And down there," he added, leaning against the rail to gaze into
the street below. "Strip away the cars, the buildings, all the modern
appliances the world has grown to love and the people are exactly as
they were when the pyramids were built. In one sense the pharaohs were
right. Egypt is eternal. No matter how many armies have passed through
here, none could ever truly conquer this land. As long as the people
remain, Egypt lives. And as long as the Nile flows, the people will
remain."
If she had any other questions the sound of a door opening and closing
behind them put an end to it.
"Hey, campers! Look what Colonel Jack's got!"
They turned as one, smiling as O'Neill set down his bags.
"Get over here, Pierson. I need you to take a look at this map."
"I am ever obedient to your will, O Great Satan," he responded
sardonically, sprawling on the couch.
"That's, O Great Satan, sir," Jack muttered absently, tossing him the
map. "Now, be a good minion and find us a way around that Egyptian
military operation that seems to have sprung up overnight."
Methos ignored the jibe and opened the map. "Wonderful," he sighed as
he got a look at the latest satellite pass. "Guess we aren't the only
interested parties in town."
Chapter 2
It was a long hot drive to Dr. Nazuq's camp. They'd left Cairo right
after breakfast, renting a jeep as O'Neill had planned then taken the
ferry across to Giza. From there, in the shadow of the pyramids, they
followed her directions. There were no roads this far into the western
desert and the doctor was not there to guide them, having returned to
the site the previous evening with supplies. They traveled north along
the river for an hour or so, turning west for the final leg. Not very
deep into the desert, but far enough to make the vast ocean of sand
around them seem daunting and endless.
"That's it," Jack called, spotting tents in the distance when they
were a few miles out. "So," he turned to Daniel, who sat behind him
with Teal'c and Carter. "What are they digging for?"
"A lost Egyptian city maybe," the archaeologist replied. "Doesn't have
a name yet, but they've done some good work this season. Two rooms and
a small shrine so far."
"They won't find much more," Methos advised. "This was only an outpost
on the trade route to Cyrene before the Nile shifted eastward. "
"Don't tell Yasmin that," Daniel grinned. "You'll spoil her fun!"
Methos smiled and nodded. It wasn't so much the size of the discovery,
he knew, but the delight in uncovering some unknown bit of knowledge
that put the other fragments in place that made an archaeologist's
day.
"What's that?" Samantha asked as she spotted a large bundle of what
looked to be clothing on the ground about half a mile from the camp.
O'Neill slowed down then stopped as they pulled even with what was
obviously a body. Wary now, they climbed out of the jeep and Methos
toed the corpse over, revealing the blood soaked sand beneath the
gaping bullet wound in the man's chest.
"That's Ibrahim," Daniel said quietly. "He was Yasmin's assistant."
"Not anymore," Jack muttered as he reached under his seat and pulled
out a small bag, quickly distributing several Goa'uld zat guns. They
had other ordinance, but with civilians around, O'Neill wasn't
prepared to risk lives.
He gestured for Teal'c and Samantha to circle the small encampment
from the far side, while he, Methos and Daniel took the near. They
found Dr. Nazuq first, sprawled in her jeep then two more bodies
inside one of the tents.
"How many archaeologists?" Methos asked Daniel, who was still pale
from the sight of his ex-girlfriend's body.
"Four paid," he responded dully. "Not counting any students who might
have unofficially signed up."
"You okay?" Methos asked more gently.
Daniel only nodded as they moved further into the camp. They found
another body near a small generator and another near a second vehicle
where he'd obviously tried to run. When Teal'c and Carter arrived they
reported three more in the recovery tent, where artifacts were first
catalogued then stored.
"Look's like thieves," Samantha told them. "There's a few pieces of
broken crockery left in there, but everything else is gone."
"Not thieves," Methos said. "Real thieves would have stripped the
place bare and buried the bodies," he added.
O'Neill nodded knowingly. "Equipment's still here."
"Yeah," Daniel agreed. "The black market for ancient artifacts is
good, but the one for tents, generators and computers is a lot better
-- and of much less interest to the authorities."
Samantha nodded slowly. "So why were they killed? To keep them quiet?"
"Maybe. Or to avoid potential witnesses," Methos responded.
"Colonel O'Neill, did you not say there was an army camped nearby?"
Teal'c suddenly asked.
"Yeah," Jack nodded, walking over to a small pile of carbine shells on
the ground. "Intel says it's just a training exercise," he added
mockingly.
"If that's true, then I don't get it," Daniel sighed, following
O'Neill with the others. "The whole team was Egyptian and the Egyptian
military wouldn't do this to their own. They're too respectful of
their own history. They'd ask them to leave the area, secure the site
and escort the team out, but they'd never steal the artifacts."
"Wasn't the locals," O'Neill finally said as he crouched, picking up a
spent shell and cursorily examining it. "These rounds came from a
Kalashnikov. Definitely not standard issue for the Egyptian army."
"And thieves are more likely to carry American or German semi-
automatic weapons," Methos pointed out. "Much easier to get and far
more reliable than Russian guns. At least, in my opinion."
"Sounds like the competition just heated up a notch," Carter murmured.
Silently, Methos agreed with that assessment. It might be that for the
Egyptians this was a simple training exercise, Methos thoughtfully
acknowledged. But there were often Russian military advisors tagging
along, and their agenda might be far more insidious and unclear to
their allies.
"Okay," the colonel stood and tossed the shell aside. "Let's leave
this one alone for now. We'll report later and let the locals handle
it. Move out."
They headed back to the jeep, quiet strain showing on everyone's face.
If it was indeed a Goa'uld ship sitting out there in the desert,
whoever owned that singular piece of technology would gain a great
advantage. So far, the Russians appeared to have little or no
knowledge of the Goa'uld. And while Methos might have great admiration
and respect for the general populace of that particular nation, he was
also still leery of its political goals. A single naquada generator
could power several major cities for a lifetime, freeing up enough
resources to begin a new cold war. And the last one as he recalled,
hadn't been much fun for either of the parties involved.
They detoured south then turned west again. Dr. Nazuq's camp had been
a mere twenty miles from the Egyptian base, while the military camp
was a good fifty miles from the ship's coordinates. In terms of this
particular desert that was a relatively short distance, though not a
healthy one. The average hale and hearty individual could manage
perhaps thirty miles in a day walking, but even the average soldier
wouldn't risk the fifty. And certainly not just to satisfy his
curiosity.
It was late afternoon when they stopped some five miles out from the
target coordinates. They changed from their street clothes into desert
camouflage, making their way across the dunes until they were little
more than a mile out.
"Busy little beavers, aren't they?" O'Neill muttered as he and the
others observed the bustling activity around the ship through their
field glasses.
"Looks like they've been digging it out," Carter responded.
Large earth movers and trucks had been brought to the site, all neatly
hidden under individual camouflage netting.
"The ship is most definitely Hatak class in origin," Teal'c announced.
"But an older cargo ship and larger than any I have ever seen."
"Those are definitely Russian uniforms," Carter added. "About fifty,
maybe more."
"Yeah, sweet," O'Neill said, sliding down a little and sitting back
against the sand.
"Looks like they aren't camping here," Methos said, joining him.
"Seems that way. Just the one command tent and a latrine," O'Neill
nodded.
"Too suspicious," Methos agreed. "If they stayed one or two nights it
might be put down as part of a training exercise. But a large group of
Russian military advisors disappearing into the desert would certainly
arouse any Egyptian's innate inquisitiveness. They might be allies,
but there's an old saying. 'Trust in Allah, but lock up your camel at
night.'"
"I always liked 'Take the Pepsi Challenge' myself," O'Neill quipped
and put away his binoculars. "Okay, kids," he finally decided. "Let's
go back to the jeep. We'll set up a base camp there and report in.
Return after dark. If they aren't spending the night, they probably
won't bother to leave a guard. Missing men would have to be reported."
"Very true," Methos added. "Besides, who would expect to find five
willing idiots ready to take on the Russian army?"
O'Neill grimaced wryly. "It's a good job, isn't it?"
***
"That's odd," Carter observed quietly as she examined the code pad for
the ship's airlock. "Doesn't look like anyone's gone inside."
Methos leaned over and nodded an affirmative. "Sand's still encrusted
on it. I'd say they're planning to abscond with the goods before
letting their scientists take a crack at it."
"Sounds like someone else isn't interested in keeping up their end of
an agreement either," O'Neill pointedly responded.
"Boys with toys," Methos sighed and Samantha gave him a rare smile.
"Shall we?" the colonel frowned, gesturing toward the lock.
Teal'c stepped forward and tapped the panel several times. Nothing
happened. He tried it again using a different pattern this time, again
without result.
"Stand back," O'Neill ordered then pointed his zat gun at the lock and
fired. The system shorted out and Teal'c took several minutes to pry
open the panel and bypass the mechanism. The door slid open a few
inches then stalled completely, forcing O'Neill and Teal'c to push it
the rest of the way back.
"Sand," Daniel explained at O'Neill's annoyed expression. "Fouls the
lubricants. If the external vents were open it's probably gotten into
everything."
"No kidding," the colonel muttered, frowning. "We'll have to clean it
before we leave."
"Indeed," Teal'c agreed, turning on his flashlight and allowing the
others to pass as they did the same.
The air inside was hot and dry. Not unexpected, Methos silently noted,
but the place was eerie. They moved forward, weapons ready and nearly
stumbled across several bodies as they turned into the first corridor.
"Goa'uld?" O'Neill asked.
"This one is," Carter nodded, kneeling beside a mummified corpse. "I
can't tell what killed it though," she said, taking a closer look.
"The rest seem to be Jaffa.
"Get samples," he ordered. "Of everything. Teal'c. Stay with her."
They nodded and Samantha got to work as he and his companions
cautiously moved off.
There were more bodies the further in they went. Some contorted in
agony, others looking as though they'd simply fallen where they stood.
They reached the bridge, finding another corpse -- dead in the act of
reaching for the lift off controls.
"Looks like they were trying to escape," Daniel commented.
"Yeah, but from what?" O'Neill asked quietly, moving slowly around the
room as he searched for an answer to his question.
"There are no outward signs of violence," Daniel responded. "From the
look of it," he added, shining his light into the corpse's mummified
face. "I'd say poison. Some sort of gas maybe."
"It's possible," O'Neill nodded.
"No, it's not," Methos pointed out. "Unless they arrived fairly
recently. And given this accumulation of sand," he kicked at the
thickly covered floor. "I'd guess this ship's been here a lot longer
than a century."
"Something in the area then?" Daniel offered.
"There's nothing here!" O'Neill spread his arms, looking mystified.
"That's not entirely true," Methos corrected. "There was a city
hereabouts, or so I was told. It was all rumors really. A city built
in secret by the pharaoh Shishak," he explained. "Right around the
time he made war on the Judeans. A place to send all the treasures of
Solomon's temple that he'd gathered from his siege of Jerusalem."
"That's just a myth," Daniel said. "We know where Tanis is. And it's
never been lost."
"This place wasn't called Tanis, but Tanlit," Methos explained. "Sort
of the short form of Tanis to differentiate between the two."
"Tanis?" Jack asked curiously. "Why does that name sound familiar?"
"Raiders of the Lost Ark," Methos grinned. "The place where Indiana
Jones found the Ark of the Covenant. Great movie, very weak on
history." O'Neill nodded. "Still," he went on as the colonel led the
way back into the corridor. "Behind most myths there's generally a
kernel of truth. In this case, I was always inclined to believe the
rumors. Tanis in the north was held by one faction of the priestly
caste -- mostly family related to Shishak, while Thebes in the south
was held by another, not counting those in Karnak and other places.
Shishak was strong enough to unite them all and by virtue of that,
Upper and Lower Egypt under his sole rule. There was quite a bit of
unrest even then and sending such revered artifacts, even if they
weren't Egyptian, to any of the priesthood might have started another
uprising. I wouldn't have done it. And there used to be a fairly large
oasis not far from here dedicated to Atum." Methos grimaced wryly as
he thought of something. "Atum was usually represented as either a man
or a serpent and his worship was later merged with that of Ra. I'm
guessing the two are one in the same."
"They were," Daniel confirmed.
"So, the snakeheads knew about this place and the logistics were
good," O'Neill said thoughtfully as they headed back for Carter and
Teal'c.
"Seem that way," Methos agreed.
"But you never saw this city?" Daniel asked as he walked alongside the
Immortal.
Methos shook his head. "Three thousand years ago I was still trolling
for trouble. Somewhere in Anatolia, I believe. I only heard about it
after the fact. Though I do remember being quite proud of the Judeans
for buying Shishak off with Solomon's gold. Very smart."
"But not the Ark," Daniel said. "The bible says it stayed in
Jerusalem."
"That's one story," Methos responded. "But I know for a fact it went
south much earlier."
"That's what the Coptics claim. That it went to Ethiopia with
Bathsheba and her son for safekeeping."
Methos shrugged as they joined Teal'c and Carter, who were just
finishing up. "I don't know who the hell they were or where the Ark
ultimately ended up, but whatever they had in that box killed the lot
of us. The Horsemen raided that caravan. Rich Judean priests and even
richer nobles. All guarding what we thought was a great big box of
gold sent as tribute. They tried to warn us, I'll give them that. Of
course, we ignored the priests and opened it once we'd gotten safely
away. The last thing I remember was writhing in agony until Silas
closed it up. When we revived it was gone, but we were sick as dogs
for weeks after. Got ourselves out of Africa right smart."
"You were all sick?" Carter asked, surprised. "What were they
symptoms?"
Methos shuddered even to remember. "Burns everywhere that didn't seem
to heal. Vomiting and bloody stool. We swelled up in places that
should never swell like that and both Silas and Caspian lost their
hair. I don't know how many times we died after that first time, but
it kept on killing us -- and everyone we came into contact with until
we burned everything we owned, even our horses, in a great pyre."
"You burned everything? Even your clothes?" she asked.
Methos chuckled ruefully. "By that time we weren't wearing any if we
could possibly avoid it. Our skin was excruciatingly tender."
"You know what it is?" Daniel asked her.
"Sounds like radiation poisoning. And from the look of these bodies,
I'm beginning to think something similar may have happened here."
"Naquada does not produce noticeably dangerous amounts of harmful
radiation," Teal'c pointed out.
"No," Samantha agreed. "But a radioactive substance could have been
introduced into the environment." She studied one of her instruments.
"I am picking up traces of subatomic particles still lingering in the
air. Nothing that could cause us a problem, but it is a little higher
than normal."
O'Neill nodded. "If we've got everything we need here, let's get back
to camp and report in."
"Yes, sir," she said. "I can analyze the samples tonight and have a
report for you in the morning."
"Good."
"So, what are we going to do about the ship?" Daniel asked nervously
as they made their way to the exit. "We can't just leave it here."
"We're not flying it anywhere until we know what killed everyone,"
O'Neill responded as he paused with Teal'c to clear the door of sand
and make sure it was sealed. "Whatever it is could still be on board.
We need to know more about what happened."
"I might be able to help there," Methos offered.
"I thought you said you were never here?"
"I wasn't, but I may know someone who was."
Daniel cast excited, puppy dog eyes in the Immortal's direction and
Methos grinned. "Ptahsennes has been around since the first Tuthmose's
reign, and he never leaves Egypt. Doesn't much like the modern era
either, except for some jazz recordings and an old record player he
liberated from the Nazis during the war. We go back a ways and he
might be willing to talk."
"You know where to find him?" O'Neill asked. With the hatch now closed
he carefully swept the sand to make it look as though no one had
entered.
"Pretty much," Methos nodded. "He sent me a postcard about thirty
years ago with a picture of Alexandria and a note telling me to stop
by some time."
"Thirty years ago?!" Jack uttered, moving the group back toward camp.
"How do you know he's still there?"
"Because he's living in my house," Methos explained. "Or what used to
be my house when I lived there. It's been a couple of thousand years,
but the place is still standing. And this is Egypt after all. Things
and people move a lot more slowly here."
"Okay," O'Neill nodded. "You can check it out tomorrow. And," he
looked over at Daniel, "think you could take him with you? He'll sulk
all day in his tent if you don't."
Daniel frowned, but gazed hopefully at Methos.
"Sure," the Immortal finally gave in. "Why not? It'll amuse the hell
out of the old bastard. Just don't be surprised if he calls you a
carrion eater," Methos warned the younger man. "He doesn't have much
use for archaeologists."
Chapter 3
The drive to Alexandria the next morning had been mostly uneventful,
except for Daniel's never ending stream of questions. Methos didn't
really mind answering them and talking kept the boy from thinking
about the loss of Yasmin Nazuq and her erstwhile colleagues. While
O'Neill had reported the situation to General Hammond, it had been
agreed that at present no action could be taken to remove the bodies.
It was doubtful whoever had killed them would come back, but the
stakes at the moment were just too high to take that chance.
When they reached the outskirts of the city, Methos wended their way
up an old road until they came to the outer wall that marked the
beginning of the property. The house was set on a hill top and the old
stone gleamed a cool white in the late morning sunlight.
He sensed Ptahsennes as he pulled into the front drive where the
stables had once been, though the mud brick structure was long since
gone. Methos got out as a shadow appeared in a window then smiled as
he saw his old friend opening the door.
"Methos!" Ptahsennes called out as he strode forward. "You son of a
diseased camel mated with a braying ass! Welcome old friend!"
Methos laughed, holding out his arms as the stout Immortal, older in
appearance though a hand span shorter, grabbed his shoulders and
pulled him tight. "It's good to see you too," he smiled, hugging him
back. "I see you're still shaving your head, you sun shriveled lump of
dried beetle dung."
The other man rubbed his bald pate. "The old ways are still the best,"
Ptahsennes grinned. "Now, introduce me to your very pretty boy."
Daniel raised an eyebrow at that and promptly introduced himself. "Dr.
Daniel Jackson," he said in the same ancient dialect Ptahsennes had
been speaking, offering his hand. "It's an honor, revered father. And
Methos and I are colleagues."
"A doctor who speaks the old tongue?" Ptahsennes asked warily. "Not
another tomb robber are you?"
"Uh, no," Daniel answered carefully. "I'm currently employed as a
linguist."
"Ah," Ptahsennes nodded, finally taking his hand. "That is better. The
old tongue is still the most beautiful, even spoken badly by the likes
of a western carrion eater such as yourself."
Methos chuckled at Daniel's confused expression. "Thank the man,
Danny. That was a compliment."
"Uh, thanks...I think."
Ptahsennes guided them into the house past stacks of records piled
nearly to the ceiling. "If he is not your current favorite," he
murmured softly in Methos' ear. "Pray tell, old friend, how he comes
to know of our kind?"
"An accident of chance," Methos explained just as quietly. "But he is
loyal and holds his tongue."
"The two most useful virtues," Ptahsennes agreed, laying the matter to
rest. "Come into the garden and see my fruit trees," he offered in a
normal tone. "Cool and fragrant after a morning in the hot sun. Girl!"
he called to an old woman sweeping the floor who looked to be at least
ninety. "Bring wine for my friends and I. And some of those little
pastries you sneak when you think I'm not watching." She snorted in
derision, though her shoulders shook with mirth as she scurried off.
"In the old days," he confided to Daniel. "I would have beaten her for
that. But she has been with me many years and good servants without
tongues are hard to find."
Daniel looked a little pale as he settled on a pillow beneath the
shade of an orange tree, but Methos ignored him, sprawling on the
grass while Ptahsennes took the stool beside him. Like a proper guest,
he waited until the servant had brought their refreshments and his
host opened the conversation.
"So, why have you come, old friend? Still looking for that stash you
think you left behind? I promise you, the pharaoh's guards were very
thorough in their search. I had a difficult time putting the place
back in order."
"Stash?" Daniel asked curiously.
Methos rolled his eyes. "93 BC," he explained. "I billed myself as a
Phonecian trader. Had a marvelous little business going in costly
spices and unguents."
"With a most excellent sideline in opium," Ptahsennes interjected,
smiling.
Daniel's eyes went wide. "You dealt drugs?"
"It wasn't like that back then," Methos sighed. "No one cared who was
toasted and who wasn't. The entire western world," he raised his cup,
"was pretty much sloshed most of the time anyway. The water killed
you, so we all drank beer or wine. And it wasn't selling opium that
got me in trouble."
"No," Ptahsennes laughed. "It was not selling opium! This one," he
gestured at Methos. "Sold the drug at a fair price to anyone, but
saved his best tricks for the families of his dear departed customers.
Such a devout man they all thought when he would come to offer his
wares as the priests purified the body. He'd bring gifts of sweet oil
and sandalwood then sell them enough dope at half price to last the
deceased an eternity in the underworld. Only it wasn't opium in those
little bottles he put in the tombs. It was a paste of floured water!"
Methos chuckled. "If that whining little bastard Diomenes hadn't
robbed his uncle's tomb and found me out, I'd have been a richer man
today."
"You were a scam artist, too?!" Daniel gasped.
"Don't look so shocked," Methos smirked. "And, come to think of it,
you should be grateful. Just whom do you think invented the free
sample?"
Ptahsennes laughed. "Ah," he sighed. "Those were good days."
"No they weren't," Methos disagreed amiably. "No cars, no films, no
air conditioning. Always worrying about money. I, for one, would not
go back there."
"If you hadn't spent everything you earned on those damn books of
yours you'd have had money," Ptahsennes reminded him gently. "As for
the rest... It would be just as well if it never happened. Who needs a
car when there are horses, camels and donkeys? Why does everyone these
days want to go fast? The business will wait. If not, then perhaps it
was not worth the trouble. And films? Bah! Men in blue tights and red
capes flying about saving the world. Men could save their own world if
they would but listen to the gods. And air conditioning," he shook his
head as Methos chuckled, having heard it all before. "Gives me a
headache. All that cold unnatural air. Here it is pleasant," he looked
with satisfaction around his garden. "And business can be done just as
well in the shade of a fruit tree, can it not?"
"It can indeed," Methos allowed his old friend. "And speaking of
business..."
"Yes," Ptahsennes smiled. "I was wondering when you'd get to that, old
lion."
"Shishak," Methos said, watching Ptahsennes' eyes light up.
"A good pharaoh, even if he was of the Lybian line. Don't tell me
you're seeking the lost treasures of Solomon this time?" the old
Egyptian laughed. "Will you never learn?"
"It's the boy," he twitched his head in Daniel's direction, feeling no
compunction about lying to his old friend. He was Methos, and it was,
after all, expected. "He wants to prove a theory to his fellow
historians. That Shishak built a treasure city in the desert, out near
the Oasis of Atum-Ra."
Ptahsennes nodded. "A difficult business that," he murmured. "So much
rivalry between the priests at the time. I remember it well. Tanlit,
he called it. And yes, he brought his treasures there."
Now Daniel spoke up. "So, what happened to it?"
"No one knows for certain," Ptahsennes told him honestly. "The Judeans
claimed it was their god who destroyed the city. But why their god
would not have destroyed Shishak's army on the spot, before the
pharaoh carried off the contents of his temple has never been
adequately explained to me. I do know that those who carried the
treasure into Egypt later died horribly of disease. As did Shishak
within a year of his return. And that the whole area, not just the
city, but the surrounding districts as well, were later found empty of
people. As if one day all the inhabitants suddenly just decided to
leave. But no one came to the pharaoh asking for help against an
invading army, so nothing was done. Though Shishak's heir sent scouts
to learn the fate of that city. They did not return," Ptahsennes added
quietly.
"What do you think happened?" Daniel asked curiously.
"The Four Horsemen came and stole it all away," Ptahsennes answered
bitterly, staring into his wine and not noticing how his companions
stiffened in surprise.
"Are you certain?" Methos asked gently.
"As certain as anyone can be when it came to those bastards. Death and
his henchmen," the Egyptian spat in the sand. "Wherever they are may
they rot for eternity."
Methos looked away, swallowing his pain as he brought himself to
speak. "I had heard they were in Anatolia at the time," he said
thoughtfully. "And they were not the only scourge in those days. More
infamous than most, but only one of many. Besides," he added
reasonably. "It would take an army to empty an entire district."
"Perhaps," Ptahsennes agreed distantly, his eyes drifting to the
little stream that ran through his garden as he remembered his own
history. "But long before that they took my wife, you know. And all
the children we had adopted."
Methos bowed his head. "No. I didn't," he whispered sadly. "I'm
sorry."
"Mmmm," Ptahsennes nodded. "It was in the reign of Tuthmose III."
At that Methos looked up, relief visibly flooding his features. He'd
been nowhere near Egypt then, but as so often happened in the past one
raiding band of horsemen was much the same as any other. He listened
as Ptahsennes told how he had been away on temple business and come
home to find the temple looted and burned to the ground, his village
destroyed. The men dead, the women and children missing. It sounded
like an attack by a rival priesthood to Methos from that description.
One thing he and the Horsemen had never done by tacit agreement was to
lay waste to holy ground. Not because they feared the consequences,
but because they might one day have need of that temple or shrine to
protect themselves from others of their kind.
"But how do you know it was them?" Daniel asked quietly, having
watched both men react to the story.
"One of the slaves saw them coming and hid. He alone survived."
Methos sighed silently in disgust. He'd heard that one before.
Soldiers, slaves, farmers. When faced with overwhelming odds they
often hid or ran, forgetting to give the alarm in their panic. When it
was all over they would come out and so as not to shame themselves
claim it was an attack by the almighty Horsemen. And who could stand
against such demons the people would ask and nod their heads knowingly
-- ever after kind to the survivors. They had been the bogey men and
everyone believed whatever was said when it came to the Four Horsemen
-- no matter how preposterous it might have sounded!
Daniel looked at his watch and then at Methos. "We have to get back,
Adam. They'll be waiting."
Methos nodded and Ptahsennes sighed sadly. "Go if you must, but stay a
moment, old friend. I have something for you and I must find it before
you leave."
"We'll be in the house," Methos told him as they rose.
Ptahsennes left them in the great room, surrounded by his records as
he went to search.
They were quiet as they waited until Daniel finally spoke up. "He
doesn't know," he stated softly.
"Not many do," Methos agreed.
"But if he finds out..."
Methos sighed, picking up an old album and examining the cover. "Then
I shall have to hope he never does."
"You didn't kill his family, did you?" Daniel's voice was small with
worry.
"No," Methos shook his head, putting the record aside. "We were in
Mesopotamia at the time."
"You should tell him," Daniel advised. "Tell him the truth. He likes
you. He'll understand."
Methos laughed harshly. "He'd never believe it. Especially coming from
me. Death claiming innocence? And how could I prove it?" he smiled
sadly. "It would only drive a wedge between us, knowing my real past.
He'd feel honor bound to challenge me."
"He does!" came the hoarse awful cry from behind them as something
crashed to the floor. Methos turned in surprise to see Ptahsennes
standing in the door, sword in hand.
A look of infinite sadness crossed Methos face. "Go start the car,
Daniel."
The younger man nodded, hurriedly backing away and a moment later
Methos heard the engine turn over.
"I won't fight you, old friend," Methos told him softly. "And you have
no cause to challenge me. I did not harm your family."
Ptahsennes moved forward dangerously, pointing his blade as Methos
followed Daniel's path to the door.
"You were Death!" the Egyptian hissed.
"I was many things," Methos admitted, edging his way outside. "But
none I regret more than that."
"Regret?!" Ptahsennes shouted angrily, following. "Regret is for oath
breakers. Not for such as you."
"I can give you nothing else. And the dead need nothing."
"The dead cry out for vengeance!" Ptahsennes roared, suddenly lunging
forward.
With his own sword still in the car Methos dodged to the side,
reaching behind his back as he moved to pull out his zat gun. He
almost avoided another heavy blow, but it caught his shoulder just as
he fired.
"Adam!" Daniel cried, leaping over the side of the jeep to kneel
beside his friend.
"We have to hurry," Methos gasped, clutching his bloody arm.
Daniel grimaced and grabbed the gun, firing a second time to kill the
Immortal. "We have a minute. Can you walk?"
Methos nodded weakly as the younger man helped him to his feet. "I'm
impressed," he finally said once they were away and the waves of pain
had subsided as his body began to repair itself.
"With what?" Daniel asked, keeping his eyes on the road as he
navigated traffic.
"You've become positively blood thirsty. I wasn't even thinking about
a second shot. Just getting the hell out."
Daniel shook his head sadly. "More a matter of practicality than a
thirst for blood. I didn't want to kill him, even though I know he'll
get up again."
"But you did and I'm grateful."
"And I'm sorry," Daniel sighed. "I should have waited until we were in
the car."
"Yes, you should have," Methos nodded, carefully checking his shoulder
to make sure the skin was knitted up before he ripped the sleeve off
his bloody shirt and used it to clean the area.
"Do you think he'll come after you?" Daniel finally asked.
Methos shoved the bloody rag under his seat. "Maybe. Probably. If I
run into him again, certainly. But since Ptahsennes never leaves
Egypt, I'm not too worried."
"I'm really am sorry," Daniel repeated softly. "He was your friend and
I screwed that up."
Methos sighed. "I've lost many friends, Daniel, even old ones. To the
Game, to my past. It happens," he shrugged. "Give him a few hundred
years and he might eventually get over the shock." Daniel glanced at
him, surprised at his calm. "It does happen you know. Time heals all
wounds. I mean, look at me. Am I not a mellow fellow?"
Daniel laughed softly. "Very mellow," he agreed. "Which is probably
why I just can't seem to picture you as one of the Four Horsemen of
the Apocalypse sweeping across the plains in a storm of fire."
Now it was Methos' turn to laugh. "Makes a great billboard, but it
wasn't that impressive really. We were the ancient equivalent of gang
banging hoodlums. That's all. Purse snatchers and thugs. A little more
creative than most, but not by much. As for sweeping the plains..."
Methos shrugged. "That wasn't us. Four guys on horseback do not sweep
anything. We trotted, we cantered -- sometimes we even charged. But we
never swept across anywhere. That's what armies are for."
"So what you're saying is that you were just a typical bunch of angry,
rebellious kids -- even if you were a couple of thousand years old at
the time."
An apt description, Methos thought wryly. "Yes, we were very angry. Me
more than the others I suspect."
"Why?" Daniel wanted to know.
"I told you how it was," Methos explained tiredly. "People hated me,
so I hated them right back. They tried to kill me, so I killed them
instead. If someone didn't want to sell me something because I was
different, I took it. I couldn't have a real family, so I sold theirs
and didn't look back. It didn't matter that they might not be the ones
who hurt me. What mattered was that they had the power to do it again.
As I said, I was very, very angry."
"What changed?"
"I did," Methos said, yawning. "You can be angry for just so long
before it eats away what's left of your soul. I wanted more. And then
I met someone. Someone who knew what I was and instead of killing me
out of hand gave me a second chance."
Daniel nodded thoughtfully, looking over at his friend whose eyes were
drooping with fatigue. "Here," he said, reaching down to grab a bottle
of water. "You lost a lot of blood. I can drive us back. Why don't you
get some rest?"
Methos drank then settled back against the seat cushions. With an
amused glance Daniel watched as the Immortal drifted off, looking more
like the college kid he'd first known than the scourge of the ancient
world he'd suddenly discovered. Whoever had given him that second
chance, Daniel thought, deserved not only Methos' thanks, but his own.
What a tragedy it would have been, if all that knowledge, not to
mention the good and decent man who held it, were lost.
***
"That's fascinating," O'Neill said after Daniel finished recounting
their meeting with Ptahsennes, carefully editing out the bit where
he'd cost Methos a dear friend. "Really fascinating," Jack yawned.
"But how does that help us?"
Carter hid a smile. "It tells us that thousands of years ago someone
around here had access to nuclear material, Colonel."
"I must have missed that bit." Methos looked up from his chicken in
salsa. Whatever anyone said about Napoleon, he'd been right about one
thing. An army traveled on its stomach -- and Methos was extremely
happy the Americans had decided to take him up on it. "Are we talking
actual fissionable material or a stray bit of uranium?"
"Unknown," Carter admitted with a sigh. "Although I can pretty much
rule out the uranium theory. Whatever killed the Goa'uld was powerful
enough to do it in a matter of minutes."
"Like Chernobyl," Daniel commented.
Methos raised a questioning brow and the archaeologist shrugged.
"When the accident happened," he explained. "Those closest to it died
within minutes. Just like you and your...friends did when you stole
the Ark of the Covenant."
"Exactly," Samantha nodded. "Everything around you was contaminated,
including your clothes. And everything you came into contact with,
like your horses, was then hit by radiation and subsequently died."
It sounded reasonable, but... "You're saying the Judeans somehow got
hold of something so radioactive it was enough to poison everybody
around it, but not them? Then palmed it off on Shishak?" Methos asked
doubtfully.
"It' possible," Carter speculated. "That they had access to a meteoric
site and used some of that stone."
"Used it in what?" Jack asked, baffled. "The Ten Commandments?"
"Why not," Daniel responded. "Once the original tablets were brought
down from Mt. Sinai and smashed they were placed in a special box and
never looked at, never touched. It was forbidden under Mosaic Law."
"I suppose it's possible," Methos gave a half shrug and nodded. "There
have always been stories about stones which fell from the heavens.
Stones much sought after by kings and priests as a show of power. And
with those myths came a warning. We didn't know about radiation, of
course, but the stories often claimed that anyone who handled the
stones would die."
Jack shook his head, holding up a hand. "Time out, folks. This is
great, but you said you stole the Ark, right?" Methos nodded. "You
also said it was before Shack Attack got his hands on it, that right
too?" Again Methos nodded, though he was smiling now. "So, if the Ark
was in Ethiopia, how could Shack bring the Ark here?"
"He could," Daniel said slowly. "If the Ark he was given was a decoy."
"An exact replica of the original," Carter nodded thoughtfully. "With
all the same properties."
"But if the Judeans knew what the stone was capable of," Methos
insisted. "They would never have kept it in the city. Eventually they
all would have died."
"Yes," Carter agreed. "Unless it was shielded properly. Encased in
lead or stone -- something to absorb the radiation."
Methos' eyes went wide. "When I was in Jerusalem the Ark was kept in a
stone vault, supposedly never seen by anyone but the High Priest. No
one but he and the king would have known if it had been sent out of
the city. And the Ark was always a target, even in Solomon's time -- a
very powerful symbol. Not only for the warring factions within Israel
and Judea, but to their enemies. Still, if Solomon sent the Ark south
with Bathsheba, as I believe he did, then what was everyone
worshipping?"
"The second set of tablets Moses brought down," Daniel theorized.
"Or an empty box," Carter suggested. "Except this one had a small bit
of highly radioactive material inside it. If anyone did get their
hands on the Ark they would die."
"But not just because they stole it," Methos surmised. "But because
they dared to open the box like we did."
"No," Carter said. "There are enough stray atomic particles in both
the sand and that ship to say otherwise. Whatever came here was
leaking radiation like a sieve. Once the false Ark left its
containment unit in Jerusalem whoever came in contact with it would
die. Even if they never opened the Ark, it would have killed them
within a year."
"Wonderful story," O'Neill finally interrupted. "But what the hell
does it have to do with the Goa'uld?"
"They gave them the Ark," Daniel said.
"And why would they do that?"
"Think about it, Jack. The Goa'uld land on your doorstep. They say
they're sent by the gods. Ptahsennes said the surrounding districts
were emptied of people. And what do the Goa'uld do? They take slaves -
- and anything else they can get their greedy hands on."
"Daniel Jackson is correct," Teal'c agreed. "It is what they do. I
have many times seen it happen. The ship will land and those nearest
the ship will be forced to provide food and other goods the Goa'uld
cannot make, while those in nearby areas will be captured and forced
through the gate by the Jaffa. When that is done, the guards will
bring those in the host village through, or kill them if they fight."
"And imagine," Methos added his own thoughts. "You're an Egyptian
priest seeing this happen. Somehow you've come to realize that they
are not gods. None of your own magic works against them, but you've
got this very powerful box stolen from your enemies. Enemies who've
probably told you never to open it on pain of death, which only makes
you want to open it more. Maybe you do, maybe you don't. But these
beings are asking for everything you own anyway, so you give it to
them. And while you're at it, you ask if they'd like to see what's
inside. I'd take that shot."
"Or," Daniel countered. "They gave it to the gods as a form of
tribute. The Jaffa guarding the ship could have opened it just to see
what was inside."
"Either way, it makes sense," Jack nodded. "Okay. So, bible study
aside Major, there's no danger to us from that ship?"
"None that I can think of, sir," she responded. "The priests must have
taken back the Ark or the Goa'uld managed to somehow get it off the
ship, which is probably how everyone else died so rapidly."
"And anyone coming to look would have died as well," Methos nodded.
"So where is it?" Jack asked.
"Buried out here somewhere," Samantha shrugged. "The sand is a good
insulator. By now most of the radiation has leached into the ground,
but I'd leave it where it is just to be safe. We're in no danger, if
that's what you're asking, sir."
"It is," O'Neill grinned. "Okay, kids. Let's pack it up. We're flyin'
that baby out tonight."
Chapter 4
The sun was sinking by the time Ptahsennes reached the edge of the
western desert. He could drive -- after a fashion -- though it wasn't
something he liked to admit. One thing he had changed his mind about
though, was his concept of time. He now understood why everyone rushed
everywhere. He didn't know where Death was, but he knew where he was
going. And Ptahsennes intended to be there, waiting.
***
"If I never saw another desert again, I could die happy," O'Neill
muttered as they topped the last rise and headed down toward the ship.
Methos grinned. "It's not so bad once you get used to it. At least
it's--" He stopped abruptly as he sensed the presence of another
Immortal.
"Time to die, Horseman!"
Weapons came up as everyone turned. Except for Methos, who closed his
eyes and took a deep, painful breath.
"Hello again, Ptahsennes," he finally said, turning to face his
accuser. "I'm very busy right now, do you mind if we do this later?"
"I am not laughing, carrion. I will have your head. Tonight!"
"Uh, hold up a minute here," Jack raised his hand. "No one's head is
going anywhere. Especially not his," he jerked a thumb at Methos.
"Unless you haven't noticed, your friend here is wearing U.S.
Government Issue. Which means," he pointed out. "That his head belongs
to us -- along with his ass. And we're not fixing to let either of
them go any time soon."
Ptahsennes stared in disbelief. "What have you done, Methos?! One
mortal who knows our secret was not enough? You must tell the whole
world?!"
"Shit happens," Methos said bluntly.
Ptahsennes nodded slowly. "So be it. Then you must all die."
"No!" Methos shouted as O'Neill and the others instantly cocked their
weapons. The sound of heavy machinery suddenly sounded in the distance
and lights from several dozen vehicles appeared on the distant
horizon.
"Oh, man!" O'Neill complained loudly. "You woke up the Russians!"
"It's a bit of a crowd for this, Ptahsennes!" Methos snarled in
disgust.
"It matters not," the Egyptian said. "Fight me now, coward. Or I will
hunt you down -- if I have to leave Egypt to do it!"
Methos compressed his lips and nodded slowly. "Get in the ship, Jack.
Go! All of you!" he shouted when they made no move to leave.
"We are so not doing this now," O'Neill shook his head.
"No. We are not," Methos agreed. "I will take care of Ptahsennes."
"The hell you will!" Jack told him angrily.
Methos frowned deeply. "When I agreed to this I made it clear to
General Hammond that I would not tolerate interference in a fair
challenge. Well, fair challenge is given and accepted. Now, go!"
"Fine!" O'Neill retorted. "But if you're not in that ship in three
minutes I will kill you. Repeatedly!"
Ptahsennes laughed. "You will not have the chance, mortal. This one
belongs to me now."
O'Neill glared at the Egyptian then turned to Methos. "Just kill his
crazy ass!" he told the Immortal angrily.
"Not if I can help it," Methos murmured softly as the colonel stalked
off followed by the rest of the team.
The lights on the horizon were drawing closer and Methos estimated
they had only a few minutes before the place was crawling with Russian
troops.
"Come, old friend," he finally nodded as he shrugged off his pack and
drew his sword from the sheath at his back. "Let's do this where--"
Ptahsennes didn't bother to let him finish, rushing forward as soon as
his sword was free. Methos back peddled, drawing his old friend away
from the oncoming soldiers and around the other side of the ship.
"You don't understand what's happening here, Ptahsennes!" Methos
called as he hurriedly deflected a parry, answering with a thrust of
his own past the other man's defenses which was easily countered.
"Just let me explain!" Maybe reason would help, Methos hoped, though
he doubted it.
"I have all the explanation I need," Ptahsennes growled. "You're in my
desert. Stealing. Again!" he shouted. "I saw those bodies you left
behind. Murdering rogue!"
"That wasn't us!" Methos ducked and Ptahsennes' sword passed far too
close to his hair.
"Lies! More lies!"
The blows came more quickly and Methos no longer had time to think.
Ptahsennes had always been good, even in practice. And right now,
Ptahsennes wasn't practicing.
***
"We up and running yet?" O'Neill called over his radio from where he
and Daniel guarded the main hatchway. He fired on a squad of Russian
troops as Daniel used Teal'c staff weapon to break up their advance.
"Momentarily," the Jaffa called back.
O'Neill cocked his head as he heard a dangerously familiar sound.
"Incoming!" he shouted as he and Daniel hit the deck.
The ship rocked as a mortar exploded against the hull. Then another
and another, until it suddenly dawned on O'Neill that the Russians
planned to destroy the ship rather than let it take off.
"We got any shields?!" he called desperately as he heard an explosion
from within the ship itself.
"We have nothing!" Teal'c responded a moment later as he and Carter
came running down the corridor.
"That last round hit the engine core," she reported. "We can't stop
the power build up."
"We have little time, O'Neill," Teal'c added. "This ship will soon be
destroyed."
"Oh, that's just beautiful!" the colonel snapped disgustedly.
"Sir," Carter said as the ship rocked again. "We can still use the
Stargate to get out."
"I thought we couldn't do that!" he responded testily, firing several
rounds out the hatch. "Only one gate on Earth opens at a time."
"Technically, sir, this gate isn't on Earth," she explained. "It has a
different address entirely. I'm guessing it's like all the other ship
based Stargates we've seen. Its system should automatically compensate
for the differential."
"Daniel," O'Neill ordered. "Secure the gate. Get ready to dial us
home."
"What about Adam?" the archaeologist demanded. "We can't just leave
him!"
"We're going! If he wants to play Knights of the Round Table with his
buddies we can't help him."
Daniel looked furious, but he headed for the Stargate nonetheless.
Another round of mortar fire struck the ship and O'Neill ordered the
others back. "Seal that door," he told Teal'c. "Carter, see if you can
locate Pierson. Find a hatch close to where he is. If you have to,
shoot him and the bastard he's fighting with and drag Pierson's ass on
board. You have two minutes!"
"Yes, sir!" she answered smartly and took off running down the
corridor.
***
The ground shook again as Methos felt the bite of Ptahsennes' blade in
his thigh. Sand was lousy footing to begin with, but this was
ridiculous. Still, his opponent was just as bad off, bleeding from
nearly as many wounds as Methos.
On the other side of the ship the fight raged on, a strange
counterpoint to the ancient clash of steel. End it now, Methos' inner
voice told him as he saw another opening in Ptahsennes' defenses. He
could make a straight cut to the shoulder and an upward thrust to the
neck -- just as Ptahsennes had tried to do to him that morning. Or, he
could use this opening to disarm and disable. He lunged to take
advantage of his luck just as another mortar exploded behind them.
Unable to compensate, Methos flew forward, his sword rising upward to
spear Ptahsennes' throat.
"No!" he shouted as he saw the light of Ptahsennes' Quickening gleam
brightly against the Egyptian's dark skin. Ptahsennes' eyes widened in
surprise and Methos shook his head sadly. "I'm sorry," he whispered,
furious at the fates which had never meant for two such disparate
forms of war to come together. Shutting his eyes Methos yanked his
sword free, partially cleaving the neck to let the head loll sideways.
Sloppy work, he thought as the body dropped to the ground, but he
could do no better by his old friend now.
As Methos fell to his knees someone called his name. A woman. Carter,
he thought bleakly, ignoring her as he raised his sword and waited to
receive Ptahsennes' Quickening.
Suddenly, there was a hand in his hair and he flinched as sharp nailed
fingers painfully pinched his earlobe.
"Move it, Pierson!" Carter ordered, dragging him toward an open
airlock. "We're leaving!"
If he hadn't been so shocked Methos might have fought, but if she'd
meant to get his attention Carter had succeeded completely. Even
before he realized he was moving Methos was up and running for the
hatch, following his twisted ear.
The first wave of the Quickening caught him at the door, knocking the
pair forward as it loosened Carter's hold.
"Go!" he shouted, shoving her toward the corridor. "I'll follow!" Then
he couldn't speak for the pain as the lightening seared his flesh.
Staggering forward, Methos rounded the corner to see the others
waiting impatiently near the gate. He gasped, falling to his knees as
several bolts of energy pounded him in quick succession. Debris rained
down as the strikes shot around the room, exploding against every
available surface. Dimly through the haze of his vision, Methos saw
Daniel punching in the address. The Quickening was dying, he realized
gratefully as the last few discharges went wild, dancing across the
face of the Stargate.
The outer track turned, the chevrons locking into place as Teal'c and
O'Neill grabbed Methos, pulling him toward the gate. Then several
mortars exploded against the hull, sending most of what was left of
the ceiling crashing down. They sheltered as best they could, but it
seemed to take forever for the gate to open and when it did, the
vortex turned multi-colored, undulating weirdly as the gate crackled
with energy.
"What the hell?!" O'Neill gasped.
Even as he spoke the vortex settled back to normal and another
explosion, this time from within the ship, savagely shook the room.
"Let's go!" he shouted. And they flung themselves into the light as
the world behind them was suddenly blasted to pieces.
Part Two
Chapter 5
Water dripped onto rock, the sound of it echoing in the dank
underground chamber. The gateway stood behind an altar set high above
the rest of the room. The only other sound, metal scraping and
squealing as the ancient wheel turned and light suddenly burst into
the room as its center filled with energy. An instant later, five
figures tumbled out, releasing harsh groans and quiet cries as they
hit the ground rolling. Behind them, the light winked out and the
sound of water dripping on rock continued its relentless echoing
through the dank underground hall.
"Did I not say, 'Dial us home'?" O'Neill asked in complete darkness.
"You did," Teal'c stated succinctly.
"Thought so."
"Guess the general forgot to pay this month's electric."
"Shut up, Pierson! I'm mad at you!" O'Neill turned on his flashlight.
"Oh, Daniel..." he sang, saccharine sweet. "Pray tell, does this look
like the SGC to you?" Everyone turned on their flashlights, cautiously
looking around.
"I dialed correctly, Jack. You were there. You saw me."
"Something happened to the gate," Carter said, getting to her feet.
"Major Carter is correct," Teal'c added. "Never have I seen a gate
behave so erratically."
Daniel glanced over at Methos for more support, but the Immortal
merely shrugged. "Don't look at me. I'm the newbie."
"There was a lot of electrical discharge around the gate," Carter
pointed out as she panned her light over the Stargate above them.
"Indeed, we have experienced similar problems with the gate mechanism
from unexpected energy surges," Teal'c reminded them quietly.
Methos raised a questioning brow.
Daniel nodded slowly. "He's right. Remember 1969? Come to the sit in?"
"Must have missed that one," Methos responded, training his light on
the ceiling and surrounding walls.
"Did you make it to Woodstock?" O'Neill asked.
"Of course. I was a roadie for the Stones. Great music, rotten
facilities," he added with a grimace, catching sight of a narrow
staircase against the far wall and ambling over.
"Well then," Jack said petulantly. "You didn't miss anything."
"Glad to hear it," Methos responded lightly, refusing to be baited. If
O'Neill was upset that he'd accepted Ptahsennes' challenge then the
colonel would just have to live with it. Some things were more
important than following orders. "There're some stairs here," he said,
shining his light up into the corner. "Should be an exit, but I think
it's blocked."
The others came over, O'Neill taking the lead as he climbed the rough
hewn steps. "Looks like part of the building above collapsed," he
called down. "I can see light though, so it can't be too deep. Teal'c,
you wanna give me a hand here?"
The big man handed his staff to Daniel then made his way up the
stairs. In short order they had enough of the debris cleared for
everyone to scramble through the opening. Outside, night was falling
and the air was redolent with the heavy scent of rain, green grass and
moist earth.
O'Neill breathed deeply and sighed. "At least it's not a desert," he
said to no one in particular. "So, where are we? Any ideas?"
Carter looked around at the tumbled down stones of the structure
covered with lichen and vines then glanced at the darkening sky and
shook her head. "It doesn't look familiar, sir. But," she added,
reaching around to remove the lap top computer she always carried in
her pack. "I should be able to triangulate our location from the
position of the stars."
"That won't be necessary," Methos whispered softly, seeming stunned as
he stared off into the distance. "I know where we are. I'm just not
sure of when."
"When?!" O'Neill repeated, eyes going wide.
Methos nodded slowly. "Daniel?" He waved the younger man over to where
he stood then pointed toward a not too distant peak. "That's Mt.
Parnassus, isn't it?"
Daniel peered through his glasses, eyes going round with shock. "Uh,
it looks like it. But..." he looked back over his shoulder, past the
ruins behind them and into the distance, shaking his head.
"Go on," Methos told him quietly. "Say it."
"If that's Mt. Parnassus," Daniel shrugged, looking flabbergasted as
he pointed southwest. "Then that should be Delphi. But it can't be.
The city's missing."
"Not missing," Methos sighed, glancing up at the few stars already
peeking through the atmosphere. "And it's not really a city. Not yet
anyway. It's still just a local shrine with a rather large village
attached to it."
"What are you saying?" O'Neill demanded.
Methos shook his head, turning to look at the building they'd just
crawled out of. The cast of the stone and the monumental size of them.
Then he looked back at the mountain and closed his eyes briefly as he
remembered. "I know this place," he whispered.
"Okay," O'Neill said. "That's a good thing, right?"
Methos simply stared at him for a long moment then turned to Samantha.
"Major, if you'll look to the eastern horizon you will see Andromeda.
She's lower in the sky than you're used to, but it's still her, isn't
it?"
Carter looked where he pointed and nodded slowly. "It looks like the
constellation Andromeda, but the position's all wrong."
"No, it's not wrong," Methos said slowly. "Or... It's right for the
time, but we're wrong."
"Wait a minute," O'Neill interjected. "Is he saying what I think he's
saying? Carter? Daniel? Tell me we're not doing this again!"
"I'm sorry, sir," the major apologized. "But Pierson is right. This is
definitely Earth -- probably somewhere in Greece, if that is Mt.
Parnassus. But I'd have to guess we're at least a couple of thousand
years from where we should be."
"More like three," Methos corrected her softly.
"Are you sure?" Daniel breathed, swallowing hard as Methos nodded
slowly.
"Aw, damn!" O'Neill fumed. "I hate this time travel bullshit!"
"Well, I'm not thrilled with it either!" Methos retorted, suddenly
more angry than startled by the strangeness of it all. "I've been
here, remember? Itchy woolen blankets for clothing. Chickens, pigs and
goats sleeping in your bedroom," he recounted disgustedly. "And let's
not forget the civilized world's favorite pastime -- taking your
enemy's head and spitting it on a tall pointy stick as you parade
through town at festival time! You never once! Not once!" he
complained bitterly. "Said anything about time travel when you coerced
me into this Stargate business!"
"Guys! Guys!" Daniel interjected, pleadingly as O'Neill scowled
furiously. "We can figure a way out of here, just like we did the last
time. All we need to do is work out how we got here and reverse the
process. Right, Sam?"
Carter said nothing, glancing toward the mountain as the others looked
to her for an answer. "It's worth a try," she finally agreed.
O'Neill took a deep breath and sighed, relaxing slowly. "We," he
wagged a finger at Methos, "will talk later. For now," he ordered,
moving toward a patch of clear ground beside the ruins. "Let's sort
out the supplies and make camp while we try and get a handle on this
thing."
***
Methos sat quietly, ignoring everyone as he cleaned his sword by the
fire. Having lost his pack back when he'd fought Ptahsennes, he'd
built the fire using a bit of flint he'd found in the dirt and the
edge of his sword, leaving the others to cook their freeze dried
rations while he searched through the ruins until he'd found an old
whetstone.
Nearby, he could feel O'Neill watching him. Worried, Methos supposed,
about whether he'd made the right decision in dragging his 'minion'
back from Nepal. Then again, maybe not, Methos thought wryly. For all
his bluster, O'Neill seemed to like him. More importantly, he was
unafraid -- without needing to denigrate Methos' abilities in order to
achieve that fearless state.
He heard rather than saw O'Neill wordlessly pick up a plate of food
and come to sit beside him on the other side of the fire.
"I'm sorry about your friend," O'Neill said quietly as he placed the
food beside him. "Daniel told me what happened. Why he challenged
you."
Methos gave a half shrug and nodded. "Ptahsennes was a good man," he
offered. "I shall miss him."
"Then why'd you do it?" O'Neill asked, squinting into the fire as if
he'd find his answer there. "I thought you didn't like challenges."
"I didn't mean to kill him," Methos admitted, finally sheathing his
sword. "But I knew Ptahsennes. He would have felt honor bound to hunt
me. And I thought," he sighed sadly. "I thought if I gave him a good
fight, made him feel as though he'd tried his best to defeat me, but I
won and spared his life, he would also feel honor bound to let the
past go. We might not have been friends, but at least he would have
been alive."
"But you slipped." Methos gave him a look of surprise. "Carter told
me."
The Immortal nodded. "I played a dangerous game," he agreed. "And
Ptahsennes lost." Another regret, he thought bitterly, added to a list
that was already far too long.
They sat for a time just watching the fire. "You should eat
something," O'Neill finally told him. "Have some protein with that
iron," he nodded at the sword.
Methos smiled wryly and picked up the plate. He didn't have much of an
appetite, but he ate anyway, feeling a little less like a pariah after
his outburst.
"You know," he told Jack, between bites. "I really should have guessed
about the time travel."
"How's that?"
"Because Tok'ra said something to me before he disappeared," Methos
began slowly. "Actually, it was the very last thing he said. I didn't
know what it meant then. I wasn't even sure I'd heard it right. But
now, after what happen in Egypt, I'm beginning to wonder."
"That's...interesting. But utterly meaningless. Since I don't know
what the hell you're talking about."
Methos grimaced, knowing O'Neill was probably not going to be very
happy with him once he explained. "The last thing Tok'ra said to me
sounded like, 'The ninth symbol is Time'. I mean, it may have
absolutely nothing to do with what happened to us, I just thought I
ought to mention it."
For a long moment O'Neill simply stared at him then turned to the
others. "After Daniel punched in the address," he asked tersely, "did
anyone else see a bunch of stuff fall on the DHD? And maybe a couple
of extra key pads lighting up?"
"I didn't see the pads," Daniel cocked his head, looking perplexed.
"But like you said, the ceiling was caving in. Some of it must have
hit the DHD."
"I didn't see it either, sir," Carter admitted. "But I thought the
outer track took a long time to lock into place."
"It did," Teal'c nodded.
"What I thought," O'Neill sighed tiredly. "Pierson here says Tok'ra
made a death bed confession. Only he didn't get it. And someone," he
glared at Methos, "didn't bother to read the memo on what constitutes
a debriefing. Like, reporting the little things all-powerful beings
tell us before they vanish into the space time continuum."
"Sir," Carter asked. "What did Tok'ra say?"
"Oh, nothing much. Just some stuff about the ninth chevron
representing Time."
They all stared at Methos, who merely shrugged. "I thought he was just
being profound. You know, something I'd figure out in a few thousand
years. It's not like we even use eight."
"Actually," Daniel said uncomfortably. "The eighth is used for
intergalactic travel."
"Apparently, no one sent me the memo on that one either," Methos
glared back at Jack.
"I'm not sure any of this really matters," Carter interjected. "The
number of variables needed to come up with an exact address for
returning to a specific point in time are astronomical. Just hitting
the keys randomly won't do it."
"But we have seen the gate used as time travel device before," Daniel
pointed out.
O'Neill shook his head. "1969 was an accident, Daniel."
"Yes, but the time loop incident wasn't. That was a deliberate attempt
to alter the fabric of Time."
Carter nodded. "True. But the Ancients themselves failed to make it
work. If they knew it was possible to use the gate for time travel,
why would they have gone to the trouble of creating a separate device
to send their whole world back in time? Why not just send someone back
to change history?"
"They might not have known it was possible," Methos interjected,
though the others looked doubtful. "The Ancients who designed the gate
system might not have given that little piece of information out to
everybody. It's not the kind of thing I'd put in the manual. Too easy
to abuse. I'd keep it for special circumstances, if I even used it at
all."
"Yes," Teal'c said quietly. "It would not be prudent to disseminate
such information. And there are many symbols on the gates we have seen
which do not correspond to any known star systems. If only one
represented the aspect of Time we would not know it."
"But you'd still need an awful lot of power going into the gate in
order to make use of it," Carter pointed out.
"Ptahsennes' Quickening," Daniel theorized. "It could have charged the
gate enough to make it possible."
"It could have," the major admitted. "But that doesn't explain why the
wormhole changed color and undulated."
"Maybe it was confused," Methos said softly, drawing stares. "Look,"
he said. "From what I gather, the technology the Ancients used was
vastly different from ours. Tok'ra implied they were beings who didn't
really need bodies anymore -- they were essentially all mind. And from
what you've told me, at least some Goa'uld technology requires an
element of thought control to make certain objects work."
"Like the hand devices," Carter nodded.
"Exactly," Methos went on. "Suppose the gate was accidentally set for
time travel mode, but needed the mental input to really make it work?
Maybe it got something from one us. The last historic date we all
thought about in common was the year Shishak went to Jerusalem. Well,
I hate to tell you this, but if we aren't pretty close to it I'd be
awfully surprised."
"Maybe," Carter tentatively agreed. "Or maybe it just went to the
nearest available gate in time at the same location for which it had
been programmed."
"The nearest available gate was at the SGC," O'Neill pointed out.
Carter took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I'm not sure it was,
sir. I've been going over the data I took from the ship. If my
calculations are right..."
"And they usually are," O'Neill muttered.
"...I don't think the gate in Colorado exists anymore."
"Run that by me again."
"Sir, I'm sorry. But when I said the ship was safe I was working from
a misconception. I neglected to take into account the effect of the
radiation on the naquada used in building the ship."
Daniel drew a horrified breath. "She's right, Jack. Radiation and
naquada don't mix well. Or, they do, but the result is more dangerous.
Remember Ra?"
"Yeah, I remember," O'Neill nodded soberly. "Together they make a
bigger bomb. But you said there was no radiation left in that ship,
Carter."
"There wasn't," she admitted. "Because it was all absorbed by the
naquada in the hull. Over time, it must have changed its molecular
structure, making it unstable."
"But they've got shields for that," O'Neill said, looking to Teal'c.
"Don't they?"
"Not," the Jaffa pointed out, "on the inside. Radioactive material is
strictly prohibited aboard Goa'uld ships, on pain of death."
"Are you telling me," O'Neill asked slowly. "That when that ship blew
it became the world's biggest bomb?"
Carter bit her lip and nodded. "I think so, sir."
"You think so?! You either know or you don't, Major. I need an
answer!" O'Neill demanded.
"Yes, sir," she said quietly. "But there's only one way to know for
sure. We need to find a way to dial out and see if anyone's at home."
***
"That's the sequence," Jack said, pointing to the key pads on the DHD
inside the ruins.
Carter shook her head. "It might work. But we still need the same kind
of power Ptahsennes Quickening provided. If," she added dubiously,
"that's what caused us to jump in the first place."
"Uh, Sam. If your calculations are right and this is 926 BC," Daniel
said softly. "Then this is the sub-Mycenean period. It's a Dark Age in
Greece. We're just not going to find that kind of power here."
"I might be able to help with that," Methos smiled.
O'Neill gave him a wry grimace. "I may be pissed at you, Pierson, but
I'm not going to cut off your head just to see if this works!"
Methos' eyes went wide. "I wouldn't even suggest it!" he insisted.
"But older Immortals do have some control over the planet's electrical
field."
Daniel shook his head. "We need the equivalent of several bolts of
lighting, Adam. Not just a random electrical discharge."
"Come," Methos smiled, ushering them up the stairs and back outside.
The morning was bright and clear, though it had rained on and off
during the night. There was a chill in the air, but the sun was
warming the land as it drew high. Methos shooed them all away. "Stand
back, children. I'm about to scare the dickens out of you."
O'Neill rolled his eyes and found a seat on some fallen stones as
Methos strode into the open closer to the tree line.
This probably wasn't the wisest thing to do, he silently admitted as
he set himself with feet apart, threw back his head and closed his
eyes. Still, there was no help for it if he wanted to go home and not
spend the next three thousand years quite literally reliving the
nightmares of his past.
He took a deep breath, reaching from within himself for the power he
remembered. In the distance, thunder roared as he raised his arm and
called the lightening to him. It crackled above, refusing to be tamed.
Then he focused his will with a shout of triumph and pulled down the
power of the heavens. It came in searing waves and strikes, burning
his skin until he pointed his other arm, throwing the lightening into
the trees. Again and again, he did this, having forgotten the joy of
this particular venture. So many years in hiding, so many gains
forsaken. Immortals played with lightening. With the power and the
willingness to simply be a conduit.
When he'd finally had enough, Methos eased back and lowered his arms,
enjoying the last caress of the static discharge as it traveled across
his skin. With a sigh of pure pleasure he opened his eyes to find his
mortal companions staring in open mouthed horror.
I might have overdone it just a tad, he thought with chagrin as he
rejoined them, sprawling on the grass near Carter's feet. "Think it'll
get the job done?"
Silence greeted him until Jack frowned and spoke up. "Show off."
Methos laughed. "God!" he sighed, falling back in relief. "I haven't
done that in ages. I'd forgotten how much fun that was."
"Fun?" Teal'c asked, clearly appalled. "Power like that is what made
the Goa'uld evil."
"True," Methos admitted quietly, slowly sitting up and stretching.
"But then the Goa'uld don't have any limits placed on them by an
outside agency. I haven't been able to do that freely in over two
thousand years. Repercussions and consequences tend to keep one
honest."
The Jaffa nodded thoughtfully. "Then you must have such fun more
often."
"Sure," O'Neill shrugged. "We'll take him out to Area 51. He can have
all the fun he wants there. In the meantime, Carter?"
She finally closed her mouth and nodded. "If he can direct it at the
gate, sir, it should work."
"Good," O'Neill said, then looked around at Daniel to see how he'd
taken the whole fireworks display.
Methos nervously followed his gaze. "You okay, Danny?"
The archaeologist said nothing, simply staring at the smoking,
splintered trees across the clearing.
"He's speechless," O'Neill grinned appreciatively. "Which is actually
a good thing," he added, suddenly quite serious. "Because none of you
ever saw this," he looked at the others. "No one needs to know,
because it never happened. Understood?"
Teal'c and Carter nodded in agreement, then O'Neill gave Daniel a
little shove. "You gettin' this, Danny?"
"Uh, yeah," the younger man nodded.
"You sure?" O'Neill asked.
Finally, Daniel looked at Methos. "Yeah, I'm sure," he answered
softly. Then, "They'd take you apart for that, wouldn't they?" he
asked, no doubt reminded of Methos' unceremonious and painful
introduction to the SGC.
Methos only smiled wistfully at his innocence. "No, Danny," he said
quietly. "For that," he pointed to the smoking ruin of the trees.
"They'd kill me."
Chapter 6
O'Neill shook his head, looking around the heavily wooded area while
they waited on Carter to finish running another simulation. The
Stargate was rigged with fishing wire from their survival kits and
attached to Methos' sword in place of a lightening rod to create a
focal point for the energies he would call. It should work, the major
insisted, but just to be sure she wanted to run a few models.
"There's something I just don't get," O'Neill finally muttered.
"What's a Stargate doing in the middle of Ancient Greece? And why
hasn't it been active until now?"
"It's probably from the original Shrine of Pythias at Delphi," Daniel
responded.
"Oh, now that's helpful," O'Neill rolled his eyes.
Methos smiled wryly. "In mythology," he explained. "The god Pythias
often took the form of a python."
"Another snakehead," O'Neill grimaced in disgust.
"Very likely," Methos agreed.
"According to the legend," Daniel explained. "Pythias fought Apollo
and lost. Only to be trapped in his lair at the center of the earth.
The passage down was supposedly at Delphi. After the battle, the
Omphalos, or passageway, was sealed over and another temple erected on
the site, where the Sibyl, a sort of mystic cum fortune teller
priestess, became the Oracle of Apollo."
"Supposedly," Methos said, taking up the story. "Pythias' breath came
from a hole left in the ground and inhaling the fumes gave whoever sat
on the stone above the Omphalos the ability to see the future. Bunch
of drug addled bimbos muttering nonsense, if you ask me," he snorted
derisively.
"You never went to the Oracle at Delphi?" Daniel asked, surprised.
"Oh, I went," Methos nodded. "257 BC," he recalled. "It was great fun.
Sort of like going to Vegas. You know it's going to cost a fortune and
everything's in favor of the house, but you go anyway, just to see
what all the hype is about."
"So what did you ask her?"
"When I'd die, of course."
O'Neill laughed. "What'd she say?"
"That I was mocking her and to get the hell out," Methos smirked.
"Woman had no sense of humor."
"She knew what you were?" Daniel asked, astonished.
"Of course she did," Methos grinned. "She was Immortal. Liked to play
handmaiden of the gods. Kept her safe on holy ground for centuries. I
did run into her again a few years back. Owns an occult book shop in
New York. Still no sense of humor," he sighed.
O'Neill grinned and shook his head while Daniel looked vaguely
shocked.
The colonel finally sighed. "That's...interesting, but what does it
have to do with the gate downstairs?"
"Nothing," Methos shrugged. "Except that some of the original Pythians
probably survived and brought the gate here in the hope that one day
the god would rise."
"When most of Greece was leveled by a series of earthquakes," Daniel
added, glancing at the ruins. "Maybe only the gate survived."
"My guess," Methos commented. "Is that it will soon be buried in
another one. Much the same as every other gate the Goa'uld might have
left behind."
"That brings to mind another problem," Daniel said softly. "If this
doesn't work, what are we going to do? We can't stay here."
"It'll work," O'Neill insisted, refusing to give up hope.
Methos nodded. It had better work, he thought, because right now they
were running out of options. Most of all, he didn't fancy spending the
next three thousand years avoiding the Horsemen. Especially since he'd
also have to avoid himself in all those places he'd been avoiding the
others.
Behind them, Carter emerged from the ruins, Teal'c trailing beside.
"We're ready, sir."
Methos rose with the rest of the team, but stayed at the entrance
above. This would be tricky, he knew, to call the Quickening and not
lose himself in the power as he waited for the gate to open then to
grab his sword as he ran and leap through the gate before it could
close once the current died. But then, the simplest of plans were
often the most dangerous and if he missed his chance he would be stuck
here unless the others could find a way to get him back.
"Okay," Carter murmured, checking the connections one last time.
"Let's do it."
They moved back against the far wall watching as Methos raised his arm
and called the lightening, directing it to his sword and from there to
the gate itself. With enough power energizing the gate, Carter darted
out and programmed the DHD. They got ready to run, watching as the
outer track turned and the chevrons locked. Then...nothing.
A moment later, when it was obvious they weren't leaving O'Neill
called to Methos telling him to stand down. Exhausted, he fell to his
knees, blearily watching as Teal'c gathered up his sword and the
others joined him above.
"Well, that was a big bust," O'Neill muttered, leaning down to grab
Methos under the arms and haul him outside. "You okay?"
The Immortal nodded. "Bitterly disappointed," he admitted. "I was so
hoping Major Carter was wrong."
"I too am unhappy," Teal'c stated, offering Methos his sword.
"You're not the only ones," Daniel said, sinking to the grass beside
his companions.
"Well, there is another option," Carter pointed out, joining them. "We
find a place to live quietly and in three thousand years Captain
Pierson makes sure we don't ever go to that ship."
Methos raised his brows. "Thanks for the vote of confidence in terms
of my continued survival, Major, but what in the world will I do for
the next three thousand years while I'm waiting to pull your asses out
of the fire?"
"Whatever you did for the last three thousand," she said calmly. "Once
you warn us and we don't go, history will have changed and this will
have never happened. The timeline will correct itself and the original
Methos will still be part of the SGC never having gone back in time."
"So, I will simply cease to exist," Methos surmised. "How kind of you
to offer me that option."
"It's just an idea," O'Neill told him. "We can try something else
before it comes to that."
"Like what?" Daniel asked. "If that ship explodes again the chain
reaction is still going to rip the atmosphere from the planet. We need
to find a way to stop it."
"What about the Tok'ra?" O'Neill asked.
"Even if we knew where some of them were this far back in time it
still wouldn't do us any good," Daniel pointed out. "We need to
prevent that ship from exploding."
"Then we must go to Egypt and await the arrival of the Goa'uld,"
Teal'c stated blandly. "Once there, we will find a way to prevent your
world's destruction and utilize their gate to return us to our own
time."
A stunned silence greeted his suggestion, until Methos finally nodded.
"It might just work. I mean, we've got two years to get there."
Chapter 7
By late afternoon they'd succeeded in setting up a more permanent camp
next to the eastern wall of the ruins with a hastily constructed
shelter made of tent halves and emergency blankets. Layering on their
street clothes underneath their thin desert uniforms had added extra
protection against the sudden drop in temperature the rains had
brought. A large fire warmed the area sufficiently, though the looming
cloud cover atop Mt. Parnassus foretold more bad weather to come. A
quick inventory of their supplies had revealed enough freeze dried
rations, energy bars and candy to last about two weeks, if they were
careful. But Methos had plans to supplement that by hunting as well as
to go shopping.
"Shopping?" O'Neill asked, obviously surprised at the suggestion.
"Yeah," Methos grinned. "Shopping. We need stuff. Like clothes, food,
blankets, a donkey. Daniel's right, O'Neill. We can't remain here
indefinitely and leave for Egypt when the time comes. We've got to
move now."
"Why now?"
Methos gave a quiet sigh. How could he expect these children of the
modern age to truly understand? "First," he explained patiently. "It
may be winter and travel is limited, but there are still people moving
around out there," he gestured toward the forest. "The locals may be
superstitious about this place and not come here, but others might.
And being afraid of something doesn't necessarily mean you're afraid
to fight the evil demons who've suddenly sprung up in your backyard.
Quite the opposite, in fact, believe me."
"Okay. We need to move. Got it," O'Neill nodded. "Next?"
"Second," Methos went on. "We can't run around dressed in these
clothes and not expect to be challenged. The Dorians never were a
placid bunch, even once they got settled hereabouts. They're a tribal
people and still very suspicious of foreigners. We need to look like
them as much as possible, so that even if they know we're not from
around here they'll think we're not too distantly related. Following
the forms and customs is always a good idea."
"Great," Jack grimaced. "We all get to wear itchy woolen blankets for
clothing."
"I'll buy some linen for linings," Methos smiled, wondering vaguely
why he hadn't thought of that three thousand years ago. "I promise,
you won't get a rash."
"Gee, thanks, Dad!" O'Neill rolled his eyes. "And the donkey?"
"A donkey and cart to start. Eventually we'll need horses. These," he
held up the torn wrapper of an energy bar, "do not exist. Everything
comes in sacks, baskets or clay jars. Which means we'll need pack
animals to carry our supplies. And once you add them into the equation
the logistics have to be proportionately enlarged. Grain and food
stuffs for us, oats for the donkeys and horses. And we'll need travel
supplies. Tents, bedding, cookware, and items to barter when cash
money won't suffice. There aren't any inns yet, Colonel, and we can't
just wander into town looking for the familiar golden arches."
"Did you have to say that?" O'Neill complained, staring miserably at
his energy bar. "Damn! Now I want a burger and fries."
"That's something else you won't see much of for a while," Methos told
him softly. "Meat, especially beef, is very expensive. Most people
make do with fish and the occasional fowl. Pork and goat are
available, but usually only eaten after they're sacrificed. And in
Egypt most meals, even in wealthy houses, consist mainly of bread and
beer. Of course, we'll supplement that with cheese, fruit, fish and as
much meat as we can afford, but don't expect the quality to be as good
as you might like."
"Sounds yummy," the colonel grumbled. "So, when do we leave for the
mall?"
"I'm leaving. You're not."
"Are you ashamed of us?"
Methos grinned, looking around the fire at his companions' bemused
expressions. "Maybe later -- when you all start scratching in public,"
he smirked. "For now though, not one of you is safe beyond this
clearing. Teal'c," he nodded at the big Jaffa. "Is far too exotic
without the appropriate entourage. Major Carter and Daniel," he shook
his head as he looked at the pair. "Let's just say blondes are rare in
this part of the world and highly prized. As for you," he looked at
O'Neill. "I'd feel a whole lot better if you stayed to guard them
while I'm gone."
"We can take care of ourselves," Samantha insisted.
"He's talking about slavery, Carter," O'Neill pointed out.
"Or worse," Methos sighed. "Let me be blunt, Major. You're both not
only blonde, but your skin is fair and you're attractive. Tell me,
Danny, you know the times. With a combination like that where would
you expect to end up?"
The archaeologist flushed deeply, but nodded. "Probably a brothel --
if we were lucky. Personal pets of some local ruler if we're not."
"Lucky?!" Carter asked, horrified.
"Lucky as it gets," Methos shrugged. "You'd be better off in a
brothel. If it's a good house the owner's less likely to beat you if
you're bringing in good money -- which you certainly would because of
your hair and eyes. And the customers would give you gifts.
Eventually, you might even get enough money to buy yourself out, but
not until you were used up by the amount of trade you'd be forced to
endure. And then what would you do?" he added pointedly. "You have no
useful skills like weaving or sewing. And no one would be likely to
marry you because you wouldn't have a dowry, or a family line which
could be traced. The fact is," he told her honestly. "This world is
not friendly to those without the means of survival, Major. There are
no social services, no charitable organizations and no international
movements rallying to free the slaves. They are, quite simply,
appliances. Human washing machines and industrial cogs."
Samantha grimaced, looking obviously disgusted. "So, we all just sit
back while you to take care of us?" she finally asked, very much
annoyed.
"Just for a little while," he said gently. "Once we're on the road
things will be different. You'll all have your parts to play in our
little charade."
"Don't tell me," O'Neill grimaced wryly. "You've got a plan."
"Don't I always?" Methos smiled widely.
***
"Oh, this was a great plan," Methos muttered angrily as he wended his
way through the forest. He was cold and wet and desperately hungry,
since he'd refused to take what little supplies the others had. Just a
canteen for water and some strips of rabbit he'd caught the night
before. In his pocket he had twenty-two copper pennies, the total sum
of useful coinage they'd had among them. He had other coins, but the
metal being unknown might not go over well with the locals. They'd
probably take it, but not at a fair exchange rate like the copper --
it being used in combination with tin to make bronze. And much of it,
he knew, would go towards their immediate purchases. He would have to
think of something else to help them survive. Had, in fact, already
thought of it, but it was an idea he knew none of them would like.
The scent of burning wood caught his attention and he made his way
toward whatever little hovel he might be lucky enough to have stumbled
upon. There were few roads this far into the back country and dressed
as he was he didn't dare travel on anything more established than a
goat track.
He was surprised then when he reached the edge of the forest to find a
fairly large farm house on the outskirts of what appeared to be a
village. But then he'd spent most of his time during this period in
Greek history in Africa or Asia Minor. Civilized places where the
cities and towns were more to his liking. He and the Horsemen had been
through here a few times, but they'd never stayed longer than a few
decades at most. The Myceneans had been far too eager to fight and
after the collapse of their civilization there wasn't much gold to be
had anyway. The Dorians, who now dominated the area after taking
advantage of that collapse and successfully invading, might have been
less organized, but they had also been far less acquisitive than the
Horsemen had liked.
He moved through the woods, carefully screening himself in the foliage
until he'd edged around toward the front of the house. Inside, two
women were chatting and he could hear their laughter drifting in his
direction. There were no men about, Methos smiled to himself,
imagining that they were probably in the village gossiping and
drinking wine with the rest of the farmers. This being the rainy
season there wasn't much to do on a farm after the animals got fed and
the goats got milked. Only a single male slave watched at the door and
an old one at that. A sop to convention that said the women must never
be left alone and unguarded. He didn't see any children, but they
might be in the village as well, running wild with the rest of the
urchins until a slave was sent to call them home.
Methos pulled out his zat gun and carefully moved out toward the side
of the house. Staying close to the wall he edged around the corner to
the front, where the slave seemed to have nodded off. He fired once
then caught the man before he could fall into the mud beside the door.
No alarm came from the house and Methos easily pulled the man inside.
Without thinking about it twice he quickly stripped the man of his
tunic and sandals. Good wool, he thought. Not, he was glad, simply a
threadbare, cut down castoff of the master's. Likely made new by the
women of the house because the slave been with them a long while and
they were rather fond of the old fart. He bundled the clothes and
sandals inside his jacket and turned to leave, pausing for a moment to
look back. The man was old by the standard of the times and would
certainly be punished for the loss -- even if no sane man would give
away his only clothing. Still, masters as he well knew, did not have
to be rational in their ire. Cloth and leather were expensive and
quick replacements might not be easy to find. With a silent sigh he
pulled a penny from his pocket and put it on the floor beside the old
man. Far more than the items were worth, but whatever excuse he gave
the family that owned him at least now they could afford not to beat
him too hard.
He ran for the woods, moving swiftly through the undergrowth, still
feeling the tiny rush of adrenaline his little adventure had caused.
It sustained him until he deemed he was far enough away from the
village to stop and make use of the things he'd bought.
Well, not exactly bought, Methos thought wryly as he changed his
clothes. Still, it was close enough for his scruples to suit even the
Highlander's morals. Well, maybe not his, Methos thought, with a
grimace of distaste. Not unless he'd found a warm blanket for the old
slave and tucked him up safe for the night before running off. On the
other hand, he knew what most people in this day and age were like.
And he didn't doubt for a moment that if he'd offered the same money
to the women they'd have thought nothing of stripping the old, much
favored slave bare on the spot.
Feeling less like a hunted man than he probably should have without
his sword, though he did have a pair of daggers strapped to his sides,
Methos rolled up his own clothes, wrapping them inside his uniform
jacket. His combat boots would have been better for this terrain, he
sighed in dismay, but they just wouldn't work with the chiton. Pity,
he thought, but he'd just have to put up with mud between his toes and
the occasional rock.
"Now for the donkey," he muttered with a disgusted sigh. At least then
he could ride.
Chapter 8
He was an odd looking slave when he rode into Delphi, but they were
used to that. Even before the rest of the country was back on its
collective feet in another century or so, the Oracle still had
visitors coming from far and wide. Not as many as it would eventually
have, and not nearly as often, but enough to mask his presence and for
Methos that was all right.
They didn't ask where he was from, or care much about him at all
except to remark on the fairness of his skin. What concerned the small
shopkeepers was the weight and purity of his coin. And none cared at
all how he came by it. He was obviously a trusted slave to be deemed
so responsible at such a young age. He was also well mannered, though
not disgustingly servile. So they sold him a small cart and some ready
made clothes at exorbitant prices and counted themselves lucky even if
his master was an idiot. No one bought clothes made ready to wear
except foreign fools and motherless bachelors.
With eight pennies left in his pocket Methos went on a shopping spree,
but this time he bargained hard. When he was done both the cart and
the donkey were overloaded with jars of foodstuffs, chests of linen,
leather and bolts of lesser quality wool cloth along with numerous
household items. And with his last penny he purchased another sword.
Hiding a smile he urged the donkey forward and with a gentle flick of
the reins he started back. When spring came and foaling season arrived
he'd be back to buy the horses -- and maybe a little something more.
***
"He said it could take a week or more, so no, Daniel, I'm not
worried." O'Neill scooped another handful of clay from the stream into
the sack he'd made out of his rain poncho. "Not yet, anyway."
"Well, I am," the archaeologist muttered. "Adam's out there alone and
virtually unarmed. What if he runs into another Immortal. Damn it! He
wouldn't even be in this mess if I hadn't recommended him for that
translation job."
"Feeling a little guilty, are we?"
"Maybe I am," Daniel admitted. "It's just... It can't be easy for him.
Look at us. I don't know about you, but this isn't my idea of a good
time."
"You managed well enough on Abydos," O'Neill pointed out.
"That was different. I had Sha're to think of and for the first six
months I barely felt the culture shock. Then reality set in and I had
to go into the fields with the others, even if I was teaching most of
the rest of the time."
"You did good, Daniel. And Pierson will be fine. He's been here and
done that, remember?"
"That's not the point," he muttered, turning as Carter came part way
down the path.
"Colonel!" she called urgently. "Teal'c just radioed in. Someone's
coming."
O'Neill handed Daniel the clay filled rain poncho and went to meet
her. "Is it Pierson?"
"He thinks so, sir, but he can't be sure. He's still a ways out."
O'Neill nodded and strode back up the path toward the hills behind the
temple where they'd built their new camp. The day after Methos had
left it had rained so long and hard that the temple had flooded, so
they'd moved to higher ground and dug in for the duration. More
importantly, it had a good view of the land on all sides. A short
while later he reached the top and joined Teal'c in their observation
post, easily climbing up the rope they'd secured to a tree and into
the branches above.
"Which direction?" O'Neill asked the Jaffa, who lounged comfortably
several feet away.
"From the south," he pointed. "One man leading a beast and a cart."
O'Neill pulled out his binoculars and had a look. A tall thin man
completely wrapped in what looked like a blanket trudged along leading
a donkey and cart up the narrow, overgrown path that led to the
temple. The man paused in his journey long enough to push back the
cloth that covered his head to take a drink from the canteen which
hung from the side of the cart.
"It's him," O'Neill grinned.
"Shall we go meet him?" Teal'c asked.
O'Neill shook his head. "Nah," he smiled. "He looks okay from here.
And besides," he added as he felt something cool and wet splash
against his cheek. "It's starting to rain."
***
"Come on, girl," Methos urged the donkey. "Just a little bit further
and you can have a nice rest and something to eat where it's toasty
warm and dry."
The animal balked again at the up slope in the path and Methos sighed
in despair. He missed cars and buses and floor board heating, and
right about now he wouldn't even mind getting one of those annoying
telemarketing phone calls. He moved up the path in the dark, tripping
as his long chiton, soaked and heavy with rain water, wrapped around
his ankles pulling him down into the rocky mud.
God, he thought miserably, shivering as the wind whipped him cruelly,
he'd forgotten just how awful it was.
"Need some help, soldier?" he heard as the brilliant glare of a
flashlight beam suddenly blinded him.
Wincing, Methos shielded his eyes with his arm. "Christ, O'Neill! It's
about fucking time! Just how long have you been watching?!"
Strong hands helped him to his feet as he heard the colonel chuckling
from above. Teal'c, he realized with relief as the big man threw an
arm around his shoulders.
"Couple of hours," O'Neill told him as the Jaffa practically lifted
him the rest of the way up the path. "You were doing okay until your
friend there decided to stop."
Ah, he thought, suddenly understanding. This was his punishment for
not revealing Tok'ra's little message at the proper time. So be it,
Methos thought, too tired to argue.
The light went off as he sensed two figures moving past him in dark.
"Glad you're safe, Adam," Daniel murmured, laying a hand on his
shoulder.
"There's warm food back at camp," Samantha added. "Why don't you go
dry off."
He nodded tiredly in response, barely noticing when Teal'c turned back
to help take charge of the donkey and cart and O'Neill led him past
the ruins.
"We moved to higher ground a week or so ago," he informed Methos as he
helped him up the path. "It's a little rough, but we're working on
it."
A structure loomed against the dark and for a moment Methos thought he
was seeing an old style barracks. Then he was inside and his tired
eyes grew round as he got his first look at what these children of the
modern age had wrought.
It was indeed a barracks of sorts. A little rectangular house made of
rough hewn logs with a clay floor covered in straw. In one corner of
the room granite blocks from the ruins and field stone had been used
to create a huge hearth with a small opening in the ceiling just above
to draw the smoke out. To build the roof they'd obviously scavenged
timber from the old temple's ceiling. Good seasoned wood originally
coated in pitch and meant to last a dozen generations or more. The
cracks had been filled in with more clay and probably covered over
with sod for extra warmth.
"Like I said," O'Neill shrugged. "It's rough, but it keeps the rain
off."
Rough? Methos thought, astonished. "I've seen rich men living in
worse," he mumbled, staggering towards the fire.
"Hey! Hey!" O'Neill called. "You're dripping on my floor!"
Methos sighed exhaustedly and briefly closed his eyes. Modern
children, modern sensibilities, he thought wryly. With a shrug of his
shoulders the himation, his cloak, fell to the floor, quickly followed
by the chiton. With practiced fingers he unlaced his sandals, walking
away from the nasty wet pile dressed only in his dignity and sank
limply to his haunches by the hearth.
Behind him, he could hear O'Neill muttering as he picked up after him,
but didn't bother to pay attention. He was chilled to the bone and
starving. The packet of bread, cheese, fish and olives he'd bought in
Delphi had run out the day before and opening the wax seals on the
jars would have ruined the contents. "Carter mentioned food," he
whispered tiredly.
O'Neill came up behind him and laid a uniform jacket across his
shoulders, dropping a dry pair of jeans and a tee shirt beside him
into which Methos hurriedly scrambled.
"In here," Jack said, shoving aside a large flat paving stone from the
front of the hearth. Inset into the blocks they'd left an opening,
lined it with clay to hold the heat and built an oven.
Methos grunted in surprise. "Clever," he murmured, then moaned softly
as he inhaled the marvelous aroma of the food inside.
"Carter's idea," O'Neill grinned, grabbing a plate and fork from a
stack nearby. "Me? I'd have just gone with a spit. Barbecue style."
Methos nodded. So would he. But trust a woman to design a better, more
serviceable hearth.
O'Neill speared a couple of small birds onto the plate then used one
of the camping cups to ladle some vegetables beside it.
"You've done well," Methos said appreciatively, noting the wild
onions, turnips and mushrooms that now graced the plate O'Neill handed
over.
"Just the basics," he responded, watching Methos savor his first bite.
"The Air Force requires survival training for all its pilots. This is
just Foraging 101. At least we didn't have to resort to eating bugs.
Oh, and there's fish and pork smoking in the shed out back."
Methos' eyes went wide. "You guys took a boar?!"
"Just Teal'c. He didn't know what it was. Found it rooting around the
latrine and used his staff on it. Too bad you missed it, we had ribs
last night."
"Well save me the tongue," Methos insisted, refusing to hide his
delight. "I haven't had a decent boar's tongue dinner in over six
hundred years."
"It's all yours," O'Neill told him, glancing past Methos as the door
behind them opened.
"We got it all up," Carter informed them. "Daniel's securing the
donkey out back under the tent."
Methos shook his head. That donkey would be living better than their
neighbors down the road if the children had their way, he thought
sardonically.
"Good work," O'Neill told her, getting to his feet. "I'll give you a
hand getting everything inside."
They left Methos to his dinner and he watched, much bemused while with
military precision they quickly stacked the goods he'd bought against
the opposite wall.
"Think you got enough stuff?" O'Neill asked sarcastically as Teal'c,
Daniel and Carter brought in the last items.
"Not as much as I would have liked," Methos told him honestly. "But
enough for five healthy individuals to get by for a time."
"Sir," Carter said, glancing worriedly at Methos as she discreetly
showed the colonel something she'd carried in.
O'Neill frowned and held up the old slave's tunic he'd first worn.
"What the hell is this?" he asked angrily, obviously referring to the
bloody cuts and tears in the cloth.
Methos shrugged. "A handful of street toughs tried to divest me of my
goods on the way out of Delphi. I simply disabused them of the notion
that I was harmless."
"Right," O'Neill nodded briefly. "From now on, you don't go anywhere
alone. That's an order."
"An order that cannot be carried out," Methos told him bluntly. "None
of you speak the language, and even Daniel doesn't speak it well
enough to make himself clearly understood in the market. You don't
move like proper Greeks and you don't know the cultural forms. Gossip
and chatter being the only entertainment around, taking even one of
you to town right now would be suicide."
"So we learn," Daniel said, accepting Methos' expert judgment. "But
Jack is right. It isn't safe for you to go alone."
Methos shook his head and smiled. "I'm tougher than I look, Danny. And
I've been at this quite a bit longer than any of you have."
"That may be true," O'Neill told him. "But you're also our ace in the
hole. And if we have to spend the rest of our miserable lives here,
you're going to be right there, miserably spending yours alongside
us."
"All right," Methos offered, smiling with pleasure at the oddly
comforting sentiment, and willing now to compromise. "How about this?
I will teach you what I think you need to know if anything should by
chance happen to me. And in addition, I promise to take no risks that
I have never undertaken before. Anything else, I know how to survive
or endure."
"Fair enough," O'Neill nodded. "Now get some rest," he gestured toward
the sleeping bags rolled up in the corner. "Tomorrow you can help me
start on a bedroom for Carter."
Chapter 9
The sound of hammering woke Methos early the next morning and he
sighed, rubbing his eyes as he sat up. He didn't know whether to curse
or praise a military that believed hammers, nails, pliers, saws,
spades and axes should be considered part of the basic survival
package. Still, he thought, having awakened warm and dry for the first
time in nearly a fortnight, who was he to complain?
He got out of bed and rolled up the sleeping bag, disdaining the
himation and chiton someone had hung by the fire to dry and went to
find his boots and socks. They were neatly stacked with the rest of
the team's gear and he gratefully put them on before going outside.
"Morning!" Jack called as he banged away at a wooden frame that looked
to be more scavenged planking. "Just making some shelving for all our
stuff," he explained at Methos' quizzical expression.
The Immortal merely nodded. "You know, we're leaving in a few months."
"So what?" O'Neill said, putting aside his tools as he stood up.
"We're not gonna freeze our asses off living in a tent just because
we're not sticking around that long. Why should we? Besides, what else
is there to do around here?"
That was true, Methos nodded. And why not? Everyone ought to have a
hobby. "Where is everybody?" he asked curiously, looking around the
empty camp.
"Carter and Daniel took the cart down to the stream to get more clay
for the major's flooring. And Teal'c's decided to try his hand at wood
working. He's out looking for trees that speak to him -- although I've
never liked a chatty dining room table. Too annoying, don't you
think?"
"Only if we haven't been properly introduced," Methos responded
drolly.
"Come on," O'Neill grinned, leading him over to the side of the little
house where a new foundation was being laid for an extension.
O'Neill reached behind a pile of timber and pulled out a small
thermos. "Saved this for you," he said, tossing the item to Methos.
"It's the last of the coffee."
"Thanks," he smiled gratefully, taking a seat on the logs before
pouring out the contents into the lid cup. "I'm definitely going to
miss this," he sighed, taking a sip. Even freeze dried the stuff
tasted heavenly.
"We'll get back," O'Neill said with certainty.
Methos only nodded. He too was hopeful, and yet remained pragmatic
about the situation -- already planning ahead to where he might have
to take them if they didn't. Certainly out of the way of any invading
armies. Though that might be difficult in this day and age.
"So, you want to give me your report?" O'Neill asked quietly.
"Nothing much to tell," he shrugged. "I walked to Delphi, spent your
pocket change and came back here. Other than that rabble in town I
didn't have any trouble."
"No one in the area knows we're here?"
Methos shook his head. "I passed through several villages on the way
back. The nearest one to the south is a day and a half from here. And
given the amount of rain we've had the north is probably flooding.
Like I said, there's not a lot of movement during the winter months,
but come spring someone might show up. I saw signs of Dionysians in
the woods further down the slopes. The women probably use the ruins
for their ceremonies. We should definitely leave before the Great
Festival."
"What? And miss all the fun?" O'Neill grinned.
"It's not fun," Methos told him curtly. "If they're using the ruins
they're probably also using the hills for the wilding. I've never
actually seen the ceremony. That was forbidden. But I have seen the
results. They drink a lot of wine mixed with hallucinogens to bring on
visions and race through the woods in praise of Dionysos. If they find
a male, any male," he stressed, "even a small child, they'll tear him
to pieces. Bare hands, bare teeth. And it's all legal."
"You've gotta be kidding?" O'Neill whispered, appalled.
"Not even a little," he answered in deadly earnest. "It's a wild cult
that came out of India a few centuries back and took hold among the
women. Remember, Greek females are suppressed by their men, not just
oppressed. As you can imagine," he added wryly. "Dionysos, even if he
is the god of wine, isn't much favored by the male population. But
they seem to feel that letting the girls engage in a little ritual
madness once a year is a small price to pay for quiet in the house all
the rest."
"Okay," O'Neill nodded thoughtfully. "I'll put out a memo. No partying
with the local women."
"Don't worry," Methos grinned. "We should be well away from here by
the time the grapes are harvested and the new wine is ready for the
festival."
"Sounds good to me. Now that's settled," he smiled. "You wanna give me
a hand here?"
Methos glanced in dismay at the building materials. Construction was
not a trade he'd ever really been interested in, and he'd done it only
when absolutely necessary. "Actually," he offered brightly. "I thought
I'd go check your snares and reset them. Those birds last night were
marvelous."
"Gee, thanks!" O'Neill grinned. "But I didn't use any snares."
Methos gave him a confused look. "Then how...?"
The colonel shrugged and whipped out his zat gun, firing once at the
nearest tree. A dozen or so birds dropped to the ground as Methos sat
staring in amazement.
O'Neill put the weapon away and moved to start working. "You wanna get
lunch, Pierson?" he gestured grandly at the decimation.
Methos rolled his eyes and sighed. "You have a fast food mind," he
muttered disgustedly, putting away the empty thermos.
"Teach you to try and wriggle out of duty, Captain Pierson. Oh, and by
the way," O'Neill smirked as he walked away. "He who cooks also
cleans. You police the cabin today. And don't forget the latrine," he
ordered cheerfully. "I know Teal'c will be grateful."
With a wry grimace Methos saluted. "Thank you, sir!" he called to
O'Neill's retreating figure. "Glad to be back, sir! I'll fetch a good
price at market, sir! I hear they're having a sale on minions!"
"Not a chance, Pierson!" he shot back. "The Great Satan likes you
right where you are. Under his thumb and happy about it!"
"On a cold day in hell," Methos muttered as O'Neill rounded the
corner. "Bloody ungrateful bastard!" he sighed, glancing at the fallen
covey. Still, he'd known what he was getting into when he'd signed
those papers back at the SGC. If everyone else was working, he'd be
expected to as well. He got to his feet and took off his jacket to put
the birds in. Ah, hell, maybe it wasn't so bad. He who cooked might
also have to clean -- but then he usually got to eat the most
heartily.
Chapter 10
Daniel shook his head slowly. "You can't be serious, Adam?"
"We need money," Methos insisted. "And lots of it. For the passage to
Egypt. For bribing officials to look the other way when we get there.
For food and clothing. Not to mention life's other little necessities
-- like transportation and housing costs. It's the only way!"
"No," Daniel said, refusing to listen as he got up from his grinding
to add more flour to his bread mix. It was his turn to cook today and
Methos had taken the opportunity to come by and pitch his idea. "It's
bad enough we had to take stones from the ruins to build the
foundation for this place. I won't be a party to it!"
"A party to what?" O'Neill asked as he came in, taking off his rain
poncho and muddy boots before going to the hearth for a cup of wild
mint tea.
"Adam wants to rob the tholoi we found last week."
"The what?" O'Neill asked, taking a seat at the table.
Teal'c had done a fine job, Methos thought absently. He'd leveled the
wood to perfection and polished it with some of the bees wax Methos
had bought for sealing jars and making candles. It would be a shame to
leave it all behind, the Immortal thought, but leave they must. After
three weeks up here everyone seemed to be settling in and he
considered it his job to remind them why they could not.
"The tombs Sam and I came across when we were out foraging," Daniel
explained.
"I knew that," O'Neill said hurriedly. "Those mounds you raved about,
right?" Daniel nodded and O'Neill gave Methos a curious glance. "So,
what's in them, other than the dear departed, that's got your interest
piqued?"
"Gold," Methos told him, crossing his arms as he leaned back in his
chair. "Enough to get us to Egypt and then some."
O'Neill nodded. "He's got a point, Daniel."
Jackson put down the bowl he was using for bread making and turned to
stare. "Those tombs are valuable historical evidence from an important
period in Greek history. We can't just strip them because we need the
money!"
Methos gave a wry twist of his lips. "So speaks a man who robs tombs
professionally."
"That's different and you know it!" Daniel shouted, incensed by the
accusation.
"Is it?" Methos asked coolly. "You do it for the sake of the
historical record. For knowledge," he added mockingly. "But those
people didn't want to be known. They didn't care whether or not you
understood them. They wanted to be left in peace on their journey to
the underworld, whether you accept their religious practices as valid
or not. And the last fate any of them would have chosen was to have
their bones and their grave goods on display for hordes of curious
gawkers. They would have wept with shame to be so disrespected. There
was a reason for cursing anyone who entered a tomb."
"But you want to," Daniel stated quietly.
"They're dead, Danny. They don't need that gold and we do."
"We can find another way," he insisted, looking to Jack for support.
The colonel sat quietly for a long moment, staring into his cup. "If
those were my loved ones out there," he said softly. "I'd be really
pissed off if anyone, for any reason, dug up their graves. But," he
added with a quiet sigh. "You both have a point. Knowledge versus
necessity. Daniel," he said with finality. "You have a week to come up
with an alternative. Then we start digging."
***
Methos hoisted the deer he'd bagged over his shoulders and started
heading back to camp. Now that the cabin was finished to everyone's
satisfaction there was more time for him to enjoy the simple pursuits
he'd once considered a normal part of life. Not that he'd ever made an
effort to go hunting when professionals and butchers were available to
do the job for him -- and he was just as content to buy his meat at
the supermarket. But there was a certain amount of gratification
involved when he brought something big into camp. And, shallow,
egotistical man that he was, Methos admitted ruefully, he quite liked
the applause.
A while later he entered the clearing, surprised to find the place
nearly empty. With the exception of O'Neill, who sat under what had
become the all purpose work tent -- and he seemed to be occupied with
something other than building this morning -- no one else was in
evidence. Teal'c, having gotten the carpentry bug was probably out
chatting up the trees again. Carter was likely working on some project
or other. And if he knew Danny, which he did, the boy was probably
down by the tombs trying to document as much as he could before
O'Neill gave the okay and let Methos rip into them.
The Immortal hid a smile at the thought. Poor Daniel had not been able
to come up with a single alternative that wasn't either too time
consuming or too dangerous. Methos was still silently laughing over
the preposterous notion of the entire team traveling through the
countryside as itinerant soothsayers and dealers in healthful potions.
They'd all be dead inside a week! Such things might seem possible to
the modern mind, but the ancient way of thinking was far too
different. In this part of the world, strangers were not only
unwelcome, but those with magical abilities were feared and hated. The
first child that took sick, or mare that died in foaling would be
blamed on them -- even if they hadn't been anywhere near the injured
parties. The very rain that fell in the same amount and at the same
time each year would be considered a curse of the gods and fingers
would be pointed at the newcomers. It wouldn't matter if they gave
good advice on when to plant and what to plant in overtaxed fields. If
your ancestors planted beans on the third moon of the second month
after the first crow cawed as you were getting out of bed then you did
the same. And anyone who said different was a renegade and an agitator
who ought to be dead.
No, Methos knew, there was no other way than the one he had suggested.
Which meant Daniel was sulking and being a general pain in the ass
whenever he was around, but so be it. It was time the boy looked past
the articles of history and saw the people behind them. Warts and all.
The pot might be beautiful, but the slave who was forced to make it
and beaten if it broke was at the heart of its history. The living,
breathing artist who painted it more important than the sum total of
his work. For all that Daniel loved history, he did not yet know how
to love the people who had lived that history. They were as strange
and unaccountable to him in their thoughts and ideas as the members of
SG-1 would be to them.
"Hey!" Methos greeted O'Neill as he came over, dropping the deer on
the ground.
"Hey yourself, great white hunter," O'Neill grinned.
Methos shrugged, reaching for his canteen. "Just thought we could use
a change from fish and poultry," he said with studied nonchalance
before drinking.
O'Neill nodded thoughtfully. "Did you check the duty roster this
morning?" he asked, equally casual.
"Yeah, I did," Methos said, not bothering to hide his annoyance. "I'll
go to the stream a little later. Although I don't see why we need more
clay. Carter has her separate bedroom -- as per regulations -- what do
we need more for?"
"Because we need a kiln."
"For what?" Methos asked, truly curious.
"Carter wants to run some experiments to separate something from
something else in order to do whatever it is she's doing, and I," he
smiled. "Am going to use this." He held up a rather crude potter's
wheel. "Teal'c made it for me," he grinned.
Methos cocked his head. "Well, it's nice that you have a hobby," he
answered tartly. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to get a bowl -- so
I can properly dress the deer we are all going to eat."
That was it, he thought disgustedly, stalking towards the house.
Tomorrow, when it was his turn to cook, he was definitely going to
make a deer blood stew -- with heart, liver, tongue and kidneys. Maybe
even throw in a few lengths of innards just to watch the children
squirm as it wriggled and slid across their plates. He opened the door
to find the major up to her elbows in bowls -- every last one of them
from the look of it -- spread over the table and every available
surface. She wasn't cooking -- O'Neill had that duty today -- and she
was never very happy when she got it. Then again, neither was anyone
else. So then, what was she up to?
Methos went over to the table and glanced down.
"Rocks?" he asked, angrily wondering when they would learn that this
wasn't summer vacation. "You're collecting rocks?" he repeated.
She glanced up looking perfectly innocent and content as she sorted
another stone into the correctly classified bowl. "Actually, I'm
looking for iodine crystals in the rock formations."
"Were you planning to dye something?" he asked, surprised by her
response.
She smiled and shook her head, running her scanner over another rock
looking for the substance she sought. "Colonel O'Neill put me in
charge of the medical kit," she explained. "We're also going to run
out of water purification tablets eventually and iodine is a naturally
occurring antibacterial. Two drops in a gallon of water will purify it
completely. And, given the number of cuts, scraps, burns and blisters
everyone's been getting I thought it might be prudent to plan ahead.
Which reminds me. I need alcohol for the kit and to process the
crystal once I've smelted it out of the rock. How much of our grain
can I have?"
Methos stared at her dumbly for a long moment. "As much as you like,"
he finally murmured.
Now it was her turn to look surprised. Methos had been placed in
charge of the food supply and as they'd all learned in the past few
weeks he was notoriously tightfisted with it. Foraging to supplement
their stores had become a way of life for almost everybody whenever
they were out in the field.
"I don't need much," she told him carefully, obviously unsure of his
reaction. "Maybe a couple of sacks."
"Did I ever tell you I was a doctor in a former incarnation?" he
suddenly asked, picking up a large bowl and sitting down in the chair
on which it had been placed as he held it in his lap. "Several times,
in fact."
"Colonel O'Neill mentioned it," she nodded dubiously. "One of the
reasons I started this project was because I considered the
possibility that one of us might be injured severely enough to require
surgery at some point. I think we'd all like it better if you had
sterile equipment to work with. I know I would."
Methos smiled wryly, absently running his fingers over the rocks. He
would never have thought to make iodine or alcohol, he realized. Wine
and vinegar both purified water and he'd already purchased some of
each, which they used exclusively for cooking now. But later... He
would have had them carry about several jars of the stuff wherever
they went. Methos gave a tiny shake of his head. Leave it to the
modern mind to micro-miniaturize even that! Why carry gallons, when a
few ounces will do? Leaving more room to carry other equally valuable
supplies. And he knew how to make several good salves, but none with
the potency a proper surgery required. Why they could even make
aspirin and refined penicillin if they wanted!
"It's a brilliant idea, Major Carter," he told her honestly. "I'd no
clue you were a chemist as well."
"Sort of comes with the science geek territory," she shrugged, giving
him a self-deprecating smile. "And if there's anything you can think
of that we might need, I'd be happy to give it a try."
"I'll make a list," he said, glancing down at the bowl as he moved to
put it aside. "What's this?" he asked curiously as something familiar
caught his eye.
Samantha leaned forward to look as he held the stone up. "Carnelian
probably. That sample came from an area where it's common in the
rock."
"Carnelian," he repeated, utterly stunned. "What else is in these?" he
waved a hand across the table.
"Besides that?" Carter shrugged. "Mostly quartz, a little hematite and
tigers eye, maybe some amethyst. Why?"
"Those are all semi-precious stones," Methos told her, but her
expression remained only vaguely curious. With a wide grin he leaned
forward impulsively and kissed her on the nose, laughing softly as she
fell back, completely startled. "Forgive me, Major, but I think you
just found our ticket to Egypt!"
Chapter 11
Methos sat by the hearth hand tooling a long strip of deerskin into a
sword belt. It was delicate, painstaking work, but after two months in
this place he finally had the time. He listened to the rain pattering
on the ground outside and wondered how Teal'c and Daniel were getting
on. They'd gone out early to check the rabbit snares he'd put out and
had yet to return, while Jack was happy in his little potter's shed
making more ceramic beakers, test tubes and other items for Carter's
work.
He glanced up as Samantha accidentally dropped the tool she'd been
working with trying chip out another good sized stone. That too was
painstaking work and everyone took a turn at it, because they didn't
dare try to smelt it out of the rock. Their control over the kiln's
temperature wasn't that good and they'd already ruined several
precious batches of stones.
"Damn it!" she hissed as she bent to pick up the implement, angrily
pushing back the hair that now constantly fell in her eyes. Except for
Teal'c they were all looking a bit shaggy these days. Methos was about
to offer her one of the many ribbons he'd bought for her use -- things
which she'd glanced at and then ignored -- when she turned to him and
started to speak.
Methos held up a hand and shook his head. "In Greek, please," he told
her quietly.
As promised, Methos had been working with the team on language skills
and custom. Daniel, of course, was almost completely fluent in Greek
and in contemporary Ancient Egyptian, rather than the hybrid dialects
of Abydos and the Goa'uld. Teal'c was also doing well, though Methos
didn't think he'd have to do much talking on the journey. All he'd
need to do was stand there looking dangerous and most people would
give him anything -- until of course they got to Egypt, where he'd
just naturally blend in.
O'Neill and Carter on the other hand were problem students, and he'd
already given up on ever getting them past the basics in Egyptian. As
for their education in Greek -- which he considered an absolute
necessity --- neither was very musically inclined and Ancient Greek
was an inflected language where the pitch, lilt and tone of the spoken
word often determined its meaning. To improve their skills Methos had
decreed that they speak only Greek when they were alone with him. Jack
chafed, but went along with it. Carter simply forgot -- constantly.
Samantha frowned, but nodded, asking her question with the most
atrocious pronunciation he'd heard from her yet, completely changing
the meaning. Feigning affront, Methos glanced at his crotch then
looked her in the eye.
"No," he told her indignantly. "You may not borrow my fat man!"
Appalled, Carter covered her mouth, blushing fiercely until she
started to laugh. Which of course set Methos to laughing.
"I'm sorry," she finally choked, gesturing at the table. "It's just
that I'm so frustrated!" Another horrified expression of embarrassment
crossed her face as his eyes went wide and Samantha realized she'd
done it again -- and in her own native tongue!
Eventually, they both stopped laughing. Methos put aside his work and
stood up, stretching the kinks out of his muscles. "Enough," he told
her gently. "I'm giving you the afternoon off. I think we both need it
at this point."
She nodded gratefully and sighed, again brushing back the annoying
locks of hair.
"Would you like me to do something about that?" Methos asked kindly,
finally taking pity on her plight.
"Don't tell me," Samantha smiled tiredly. "You also do hair and
nails."
"After a fashion," he agreed. "Come on, instead of language what do
you say to working on cultural assimilation for a change of pace?" She
glanced guiltily down at the stones. "They'll keep," Methos insisted.
"And besides," he added, trying to alleviate any embarrassment she
might be feeling. "I was planning this for everyone later in the week.
Maybe it'll be easier to remember to speak the language if you look
like one of the people," he suggested.
"Well, I obviously need a break," she finally nodded. "Okay, you're
on. What do I do?"
Methos grabbed a chair and set it by the hearth. "All you need to do
is sit," he told her, going to the corner as she moved. He opened one
of the smaller chests and pulled out a box of toiletries containing
all the things a woman of some status would require daily. Then, going
back to the hearth he laid out the items he needed, putting the rest
aside.
"What are those for?" Samantha asked as Methos rested a pair of
hollow, tube shaped clay implements with bone handles near the fire.
He told her and from the expression on her face, for a moment he
thought he'd get slapped.
"You had curling irons?! And you didn't bother to tell me?!" she
accused, voicing her ire.
Methos smiled impishly. "You never asked."
"What else have you got in there?" she said, reaching for the box.
Methos grinned. There was a woman under that uniform after all, he
thought with relief. "Perfumed oils, scented wax, combs, ribbons,
cosmetics and a few pieces of jewelry."
"Cosmetics?" she repeated hopefully.
"Not Revlon, I'm afraid. Or whatever it is girls wear nowadays. But it
gets the job done."
Carter opened the box and looked at the confusing array of tiny jars
and unmixed powders. "Looks complicated," she said a little wistfully.
"Takes a bit of practice," he agreed. "But you'll get the hang of it
eventually."
She gave him a long considering stare then handed over the box. "Okay,
Pierson, let's see what you've got. Make me pretty."
Methos accepted the challenge with a grace born of centuries. "Too
late for that I'm afraid. Your parents got there long before me."
***
It was with some trepidation a few hours later that Colonel O'Neill
approached the house. The windows, covered in thickly waxed linen,
glowed brightly in the late afternoon shadows which harbored more rain
for the night. But that was typical. Wet in the morning, again around
lunch and sometimes in the evening the skies would open and the deluge
would start all over again. What was not typical was the sound of
music and laughter coming from inside. By this time of day everyone
was usually too tired to do more than practice their language skills
or listen to Pierson's lectures on proper Greek etiquette. Which was
never too onerous since he generally interspersed these talks with
amusing anecdotes and stories of his own social gaffs and faux pas.
So, he was more than a little surprised when he opened the door to
find everyone dressed in blankets. The beds Teal'c had made had been
moved and set into a half circle at the side of the room -- and in the
center Methos and Daniel were line dancing to the sound of the Jaffa's
flute. Nearby, Carter lay on one of the beds, a wine cup in her hand,
looking spectacular. Hair curled up in an attractive do and set with
decorative combs and ribbons, she giggled as Daniel tripped over his
feet when Teal'c suddenly broke off his tune.
"You guys decided to have a blow out and you didn't invite me?!"
O'Neill complained, pretending to be hurt, but in truth secretly
pleased to see his team relaxed and happy for the first time in
months.
"Uh, sorry, Jack," Daniel apologized, faintly embarrassed as Carter
stood, nervously putting aside her cup. "We kind of got lost in the
moment."
"Apparently."
They stared guiltily at him, except for Methos, who showed not the
least bit of remorse. O'Neill frowned, looking them over one by one.
"Well, don't I get a bed sheet?" he finally asked feigning annoyance.
"Right this way, Colonel Satan, sir!" Methos grinned as he bowed
O'Neill toward Carter's bedroom.
The colonel gave Samantha a surprised glance. Her room was strictly
off limits unless the door was open and the man inside had her express
permission to be there.
"It's okay, sir," she told him, blushing faintly. "Getting these
on..." She absently touched one of the many folds and draperies of her
chiton. "Well, it gets a little...personal."
O'Neill paused as he digested her words. "You mean you're not..." He
couldn't even bring himself to say it as he stared at their faces.
"None of you?!"
Methos chuckled as the others stood there looking clearly
uncomfortable. "You want to be authentic, don't you?"
O'Neill grimaced. "I was kinda hoping that was all just a nasty
rumor."
"Afraid not," Methos shook his head. "And with all due respect,
Colonel, underwear is highly overrated. But not to worry," he grinned
widely. "You're fat man is safe in my hands."
Carter unaccountably burst out laughing, while O'Neill turned red and
stalked into the bedroom.
"You leave him out of this, Pierson!"
The door slammed behind him and Methos sighed. He was definitely going
to have to add alum to their list of supplies. His chances of getting
O'Neill into a public bathhouse, he suddenly realized, had just taken
a nose dive.
Chapter 12
The morning was bright with sunshine and birdsong. A perfect spring
day, Methos thought, inhaling deeply. He didn't know what lay ahead
and at the moment he didn't really care.
Now, that was not entirely true, Methos suddenly realized with a touch
of chagrin. He did care. About these people, about the future, and
about his own place in this crazy, screwed up universe.
Okay, so he cared, Methos admitted silently. But not, he grinned,
enough to spoil his pleasure at the first truly beautiful morning
since they'd been here. There would be no rain today, he was certain
of it.
Behind him, the door opened quietly and he heard O'Neill's soft
greeting. The others were probably still sleeping, today being
everyone's day off. A special allowance the colonel had made as long
as they all shared in the housekeeping chores.
Methos returned his greeting with a nod. "We should leave in a few
days, a week at most," he said quietly.
"We?" O'Neill asked curiously.
"Yes," Methos nodded. "You and I. We. Go to Delphi. Buy horses. Drink
beer. Wine. And get arrested for loitering."
"You had me up until the horses," O'Neill sighed, sitting down on one
of benches Teal'c had placed to either side of the door. "But," he
finally nodded. "I'd definitely like to recon the area. So, what's the
plan?"
"Same as before," Methos shrugged. "We walk. We shop. We come back
here. Only this time it's safe enough for you to go with me."
"How's that?" O'Neill asked.
Methos opened his arms wide as if to encompass the world. "It's
spring!" he exclaimed enthusiastically.
"I take it that's a big deal around here," O'Neill responded,
unimpressed.
"Only if you're alive," Methos rolled his eyes and sat down beside
him. "Listen, in a few days the roads will be dry. The mares have
already started foaling and the yearlings will be coming to market."
O'Neill gave him an odd stare. "I'm a little fuzzy on the whole Son of
Flicka thing, but keep going."
Methos sighed and did his best to try and convey the true meaning of
spring to a child of the modern era. "Don't you get it, O'Neill?
Farmers who need seed and tools will travel to the markets to sell the
extra cloth and flax their women have woven during the winter. Knowing
this, spice merchants, potters, arms makers, dye makers, perfumers and
jewelers from everywhere will come to the cities. It's the one time of
year when strangers are not only welcome, but expected. In the
villages, on the roads, it doesn't matter. And most important of all,
you can look at anything and everything and no one will question why."
"Good cover," O'Neill nodded slowly. "I like it. But why don't we all
just leave now?"
"Because it's also the time of year that most slaves are bought and
sold. And when the wealthy come to shop -- or take what they want if
they can't make a price. They're bored from being cooped up too long.
Thinking of getting that new slave that will entertain them for the
rest of the year before discarding him or her to the fields or the
kitchens. They make the laws, so they can do what they like and they
know it. The others aren't safe yet, and they won't be until we get
back with the rest of our disguise."
"The horses?" O'Neill asked, surprised.
"Them too," Methos nodded. "But I was thinking more along the line of
oxen..."
***
"So what do you think?" Methos asked as they reached the hills
overlooking Delphi.
For three days they had walked, talking little as O'Neill contemplated
the land and its people. To say he wasn't impressed would have been an
overstatement. He was, in fact, quite clearly disappointed. Now,
looking down on the untidy sprawl of fieldstone houses and wooden huts
with thatched roofs that was Delphi, O'Neill had to shake his head in
amazement.
"I thought this was supposed to be the cradle of Western
Civilization," he commented.
"Give them another three centuries and they'll be well on their way,"
Methos responded lightly. "Right now, they're about a half step up
from subsistence farming. No written language to speak of and no
concept of modern economics."
"I thought Daniel said they had a pretty high level of sophistication
just a few hundred years ago?" he asked as they started down.
"Those were the Myceneans. You know, the guys who fought at Troy,"
Methos explained. "They lost control of the country when the big
earthquake hit about three hundred years ago. God, that was a nasty
piece of business," he shook his head, remembering. "Not a stone left
standing for hundreds of miles in every direction of the epicenter.
People just sat on what was left of their homes until they keeled over
and died. Starvation and disease took thousands more and the
aristocracy could do nothing for them. They were just as bad off as
the rest. Took another century before it was all gone and the Dorians
had everything, but what you see here is the end result of that
collapse. A tribal, agrarian society just beginning to feel settled
enough to start exploring the world around them. In a quarter century
or so they'll actually start trading with their neighbors."
O'Neill nodded. "Looks pretty much like every other piss poor,
pathetic little dirt ball we've been to," he murmured as they reached
the road and joined the steady stream of travelers moving toward the
town. "All they need is a gate and a few snakeheads coming by every so
often."
"True," Methos agreed quietly. "But this is your world and these are
your ancestors. Not some strangers who might be descended from a
handful of kidnap victims left on another planet. These people will
eventually have living, breathing children. Some of whom might watch
the same television shows, listen to the same music and dream about
owning the same kind of car you do."
"You really know how to take the fun out of it, don't you?" O'Neill
commented.
Methos smiled kindly. "I tell you this, because there is no gate to
run back to when things go wrong. No back up, no SGC, no escape -- at
least for the moment. You will see things here. Things that are so
unconscionably cruel that you won't be able to fathom how you could
ever have been born of such stock. Even if none of your antecedents
spring from this place, somewhere in your past there is one just like
it."
"If you're trying to tell me not to be Daniel, running around trying
to save the universe then you're preaching to the choir, Pierson."
"That's another thing," Methos pointed out. "It's time you started
calling me by my proper name."
"Piersoneaus?"
Methos hid a smile. "Come, Yanos, son of Neleus, there's something I
want to show you."
O'Neill grimaced at the name Methos had given him before they'd left.
The same way he'd named the others. Samantas, Danaeus and Teulokos. He
hated it, but he'd thought Cornelios was worse, so he'd finally
accepted it.
A little while later they'd reached the town's outskirts, entering
with the rest of the morning rush. There was no gate, no outer wall,
and no means of defense except the swords and daggers everyone seemed
to carry. The streets were narrow and cramped. Only wide enough for a
tall man to stretch out his arms and touch the walls on either side.
The place was noisy, claustrophobic and oddly enough, both strange and
familiar at the same time. O'Neill had seen dozens of villages not too
unlike this one in his travels on Earth. And they all pretty much felt
the same. Though he'd never had that same feeling on any of the other
worlds he'd been too. But then, this was his sun and his world, and
somehow, his mind and body knew it.
"Something smells good," O'Neill murmured as they passed a shop with
an open front.
Methos paused in his step. "This town is big enough to have a real
bakery," he explained. "I see the proprietor has just put out some
fresh baked loaves. Hungry?"
"Oh, yeah," he nodded. "For fresh bread and not that flat, pasty stuff
you and Daniel make? Anytime."
"Good," Methos grinned. "Let's see if he'll take a nickel for a couple
of his finest."
There was a little haggling, but the man seemed very taken with the
unusual coinage, smiling when he bit it and throwing in an extra loaf
because he was certain he'd just robbed the two strangers. Methos led
him over to an alley around the side of the building, hunkering down
against the wall out of the flow of traffic to sit and eat. O'Neill
shrugged and joined him.
With the first bite Jack simply closed his eyes and savored. Warm,
fresh, soft delicious bread. A little more grainy than wheat bread and
made with honey instead of sugar, but it was still wonderful to the
taste.
"This is great!" O'Neill exclaimed after another two bites.
"Glad you like it," Methos nodded. "Want to see how it's made?"
O'Neill gave him a quizzical look. "Sure," he finally said as Methos
stood and led the way to the back of the house. "I can give my
compliments to the baker."
The rear entry to the courtyard stood open and Methos looked inside
then stepped back, twitching his head at the doorway. "You're in luck,
Yanos. The baker is in."
O'Neill moved around him, standing stock still as he laid eyes on the
baker. No big shouldered, round bellied, happy stereotype in a white
apron covered in flour dust stood to meet him. But a pair of thin,
wretched looking women bound in thick, heavy leather collars that
covered their necks up to their mouths knelt on a hard stone floor
kneading and pounding.
"They will never taste the bread they bake," Methos' voice was a dark
whisper from behind. "Never do more than crawl from their corner to
the wash basin, so that they cannot even lick the flour from their
hands. They get the dry crusts that no one wants to use even for
feeding geese and hens. And when they cannot lift their arms to knead
they'll be sent into the streets to sell the bread and never dare to
try and eat it for fear of being sent to the mines."
O'Neill looked pale and disgusted as he stepped back out, tossing the
rest of his bread aside. "Point taken -- Methos."
The Immortal sighed as he watched O'Neill walk away. He shrugged and
picked up the bread, not bothering to dust it off as he quickly ducked
back into the kitchen. Over in the far corner a pile of straw served
as bedding for the slaves. Too weary to do more than glance at him,
the women hardly looked up from their work until he tucked both his
loaf and O'Neill's half eaten one as well as the extra loaf they'd
been given under the straw. Then their eyes went wide with fear and
consternation. No doubt, Methos thought, they were afraid the master
might think it stolen.
"Good bread, little one," he gently pinched the cheek of a girl who
couldn't have been more than twelve. "Wait until they're all in bed,"
he warned. "Then fill your bellies." She couldn't even nod in her
collar, so she blinked her eyes to show she understood.
Shocked by his own actions Methos left hurriedly, wondering what in
the world had come over him. He should never have given them hope like
that. Never have given them food which might prolong their lives and
their suffering by another minute. It was an act of kindness
completely inconsistent with the times. And he knew better! Especially
after his lecture to O'Neill. Yet, without thinking, he'd done it.
"Just couldn't resist, could you?" Jack accused as he rejoined the
colonel.
Methos only shrugged, hiding his own internal quandary. It had been a
cruel thing to do to the man, but... "You had to understand," he
explained gently.
"Not that," O'Neill shook his head. "The bread -- you phony!"
Chapter 13
Their first order of business that day was to sell the dozen or so gem
stones they'd brought with them. They wandered around the market -- an
open air field not far from the Oracle where one day a permanent agora
would be built. One with marble colonnades, shade trees, benches,
fountains and statues to entice the eye and give succor to weary
travelers and citizens. The current collection of tents, stalls,
wagons and carts that constituted the market wasn't much more than a
noisy, confusing jumble at present, but Methos moved through it with
practiced ease, pausing now and again as something caught Jack's eye.
There were several jewelers already in residence, he explained to
O'Neill after their first walk through. But only two dealt in stones
of any worth. The rest carried silver, gold and bronze trinkets for
the more affluent. And only one of the two regularly showed his wares
to kings.
He led O'Neill back into the controlled chaos and over to the largest
tent in the market. There was no stall out front, or slave to hawk the
master's goods. Those desiring to buy or sell would find him, without
the need for advertising.
Methos approached the entrance, glancing inside to make sure the
jeweler wasn't with another customer then politely scratched at the
tent post when he saw the man alone. The jeweler, not much past his
prime by Methos standards, lifted a hand to usher them in.
"I am Methos, son of Tok'ra, who offers greetings," he said, taking a
seat on the mat opposite the man. "My companion is Yanos, son of
Neleus."
The jeweler nodded deeply. "I am Mendanes of Achiaea, who offers
welcome to all his customers."
"May the gods smile favorably upon him then," Methos smiled. At least
this man wasn't put off by the fact that they were obviously foreign.
While O'Neill had tanned over the past few days, enough to bring him a
little closer in shading to the population, Methos hadn't and never
would. A sunburn was damage to the skin and as quickly as he burned he
healed with disgusting regularity. "But we come to sell, not buy, good
Mendanes."
The jeweler smiled thoughtfully and clapped his hands. Out the shadows
in the corner a slave arose and Methos waited patiently as the boy
brought wine already mixed with water and a bowl of figs then returned
to his corner. He took a sip and judged Mendanes honest, there being
more parts water to wine. An old trick, he knew, to give the customer
strong drink before making the price. With a surreptitious glance he
checked on O'Neill, who was surprisingly placid, following Methos'
instructions to the letter. "Do as I do and say nothing."
With a slight nod of approval Methos reached into the front of his
chiton and pulled out a small leather bag, removing the strap from
around his neck to lay it open on the mat before him.
Mendanes' quickly stifled gasp was a good sign that he was impressed,
not only by the size of the stones, but by their gloss. He picked up a
piece of tigers eye and held it to the light. Methos said nothing as
one by one he examined the others. Uncut and polished to perfection
using modern techniques, they were all exceptional pieces.
Finally, Mendanes put down the last stone and gave a desultory nod.
"These are fairly common stones," he said, beginning the time honored
dance of the bargain.
"If you aren't interested," Methos said, moving as if to sweep them
back into their bag.
"Wait!" the man exclaimed, laying a warm hand on Methos' arm. "Don't
be so hasty, young friend. I might be able to find a use for them."
So, now they were friends? Methos thought, amused. Mendanes was
obviously eager to buy, but not to be taken to the cleaners. Even if,
as Methos well knew, these common stones were the best representatives
of their kind the man was ever likely to see.
"I am in no hurry," Methos told him, sitting back. He took another sip
of wine and nibbled a fig as Mendanes took another moment to examine
the stones again.
"Perhaps I was mistaken and they are not so common after all,"
Mendanes finally said when Methos made no move rush him. Here was
obviously a customer who knew the worth of his wares.
"Not common at all," Methos agreed, taking the hint. If the stones had
a unique history, one which would please the ear, titillate the mind
and increase the stones value in the eye of the beholder Mendanes
would certainly feel better about shelling out a small fortune for
them. He'd make at least twice that from the uneducated, but hideously
rich aristocracy, who were always trying to keep up with their wealthy
friends and neighbors.
"The stones you see before you," Methos said, making up the tale as he
went. "Come from the land of Khemet, brought there by the Pharaoh
Imhotep from fabled Nubia and washed in the desert sands for twenty
years by a thousand slaves until they shone as bright as the stars in
the heavens."
"They do have a nice polish," Mendanes allowed.
"A nice polish?!" Methos feigned shock. "Each of these stones was worn
for a year in the warm bosom of the pharaoh's beloved daughter,
Nefreti. She who killed herself after the death of her lover, Ahknaten
-- executed by her father for daring to offer the princess a lotus
blossom in the garden! A nice polish indeed!"
Mendanes' eyes widened as he drew an awestruck breath. An hour later,
after some cursory haggling and the expected sharing of wine and
gossip, Methos and Jack left the jeweler's tent. The little sack
around his neck was heavy with gold and silver, but Methos was
extraordinarily pleased.
"In the warm bosom of the pharaoh's daughter?" O'Neill finally asked
when they were far enough away.
Methos shrugged. "What did you want me to say? That they were blasted
out of a rock formation by a Goa'uld staff weapon, polished in a
gravel filled tumbler by an archaeologist and given luster in a weak
solution of bicarbonate acid by Major Carter?"
"Doesn't quite have the same ring to it, does it?" O'Neill agreed.
"Not quite," Methos nodded.
"Yeah, but is it enough to get us to Egypt?"
Methos felt the weight against his chest and smiled. "More than enough
to give us a damn good start."
***
"Where to next?" O'Neill asked as they headed down a side street.
"Flesh market's on the other side of town," Methos said, licking his
sticky fingers. For lunch, they'd found a stall where an early version
of the shish-kabob was sold, using goat instead of lamb. Then they'd
stopped at a kiosk where an old woman made dough balls, deep fried in
oil and drizzled with warm honey.
"Flesh?" O'Neill repeated.
"Meat of every kind," Methos explained. "Two legged and four. They
keep it out of town because of the stench."
"Thanks for the warning," O'Neill grimaced as they headed in that
direction. Even this far away the scent of animals was redolent in the
warm, heavy air.
"Oh, the slave sales are over for the day," Methos told him lightly.
"Those are held in the morning when their bodies are clean and fresh.
Wouldn't do to have the merchandise looking wilted and smelling of the
pens. Might lower the price."
"Sweet," O'Neill muttered. "Let's just get this over with."
Methos didn't bother to respond. He was sorry to have to be so blunt.
To rip away all the illusions of the bright white history books
O'Neill had grown up with. But there was no other way. No matter what
O'Neill thought of himself and his capabilities as a tough as nails
covert operative, the man had still been gently raised. If he was
going to survive in this world and help his people to survive along
with him, then he had to understand the simple facts of everyday life.
The pens, a mere quarter mile away as they reached the edge of town,
were quiet at the moment, and Methos did nothing to draw O'Neill's
attention to them. In the heat of the day this part of the market was
never busy. And given a choice, had Methos been alone, he'd certainly
have waited and gone the next morning. But he wasn't, and not trusting
O'Neill's gut reaction to the sight of a slave auction, he'd decided
not to put it off.
They moved across the wide field where temporary paddocks had been set
up. Just some wooden posts and rope to keep the animals from wandering
off. There were goats, sheep, chickens, geese and ducks for sale near
the front, but the larger animals were all towards the back. Donkeys,
mules and cows came next then the paddocks spread out further apart
and Methos nodded to himself as he saw a fine pair of oxen being
watered and fed.
The man in charge of them was obviously an overseer for one of the
larger estates. Only the very wealthy could afford to keep these
animals given the amounts they ate. But the wealthy rarely sold such
riches, using the beasts both in the fields and to draw their wagons,
though on rare occasions they might sacrifice one for a wedding. If
they were selling then it clearly meant trouble at home. A poor crop
that threatened to affect the family's social status, or an illness
which had spread among the other animals and reduced their income.
Still, what was trouble for one was often good fortune for another.
Methos didn't spend time on pleasantries with this man, who was no
doubt tired from having spent the day talking to potential buyers and
wouldn't have appreciated the waste of his time. The overseer named a
price, which Methos refused, offering another amount far less than
they were worth. They haggled for half an hour and when the man stood
firm at six silver drachma for the pair, Methos knew that this was the
lowest price set by the owner and accepted.
He gave the overseer a quarter of the amount as earnest money to show
his master, then asked the man if he wanted to make something extra.
The overseer, glad to be of service now that his job was done, and
always willing to help out a paying customer if it put something in
his purse, accepted Methos' charge to buy them a good, sturdy ox cart
and enough feed to last the journey home. He gave the man his smallest
silver coin and named a fee. Not very much, but then the man would
likely pocket most of the money left over from the purchase. It was
expected and they both knew it.
After making arrangements to meet the following day to complete the
transaction, Methos paused on the way to the horses to drink some
water.
"That looked expensive," O'Neill commented as Methos offered him some.
"Very," he agreed. "But they're just for cover. We'll sell them once
we get to the coast. Should even make a bit of money off the sale."
O'Neill shook his head, giving Methos back his canteen. "Are you ever
going to tell me what this plan of yours is?"
"And spoil the surprise?" Methos looked shocked. "I'm living just to
see the expression on your face when it's revealed."
The colonel gave him a wry smile. "Let's hope it's one you can live
with."
"The risk is half the fun," Methos grinned, moving toward the nearest
corral. He liked only one of the animals he saw there and wandered
further afield, hoping for better, then way off in the distance heard
the panicked, angry whinnying of a terrified horse.
"Come on, let's see what the ruckus is about," Methos said as frenzied
shouts and at least two other horses joined in to trumpet anger and
alarm.
"You're not thinking of helping anyone, are you?" Jack called after
him. "Methos?!"
The Immortal ignored him, moving easily through the crowd which had
gathered to watch. At the front, he found a waist high fence, more
sturdy than the rest, and given the current behavior of the occupants
Methos could guess why.
An unbroken white stallion, taller than most Greek horses, though
nowhere near the height of an Arabian, ran the length and breadth of
the area followed by his equally wild consorts. A pair of fine mares,
one a reddish brown color, the other black with white hocks.
"They're perfect," he whispered as O'Neill came up beside him.
"They just kicked the shit out of that guy over there," the colonel
responded, discreetly pointing toward a man being carried from the
field by his companions.
"Don't be a wuss, Yanos."
"You're calling me a wuss?!"
Methos rolled his eyes and turned to look for the owner. He found him
as the crowd dispersed. A tired looking man, who seemed extremely
agitated as the buyer he'd thought he'd had furiously shook his head,
shouted a few choice curses and left.
"Hey, friend!" Methos called to one of the men still milling about.
"What's the story on that lot?" He nodded at the horses and the man
shrugged.
"The sire was mad. Bad blood, if you ask me. But old Archimedes," he
nodded toward the owner. "He figured he could make back his money if
he bred the bastard to gentle dams. Instead, they bred true. Now he'll
have to put them down, like he did the sire last summer after it
killed a groom."
"That would be a shame," Methos murmured thoughtfully as the man
walked away.
"Are you out of what's left of your mind?!" O'Neill demanded. "Didn't
you hear? Those things are dangerous!"
"Nonsense," Methos responded lightly. "They just haven't been handled
right."
O'Neill's face went blank. "That wasn't an invitation for discussion,
Captain."
Methos glared at him to no effect then finally sighed. "Colonel, who
are you going to trust? Some illiterate peasant who's probably never
even sat a horse? Or me?" he asked snidely. "You know, there's a
reason we were called The Horsemen and not Those Four Running Guys in
Scary Masks. I've never once had to put down a steed for bad behavior
-- even when I specifically trained them to kill with their hooves."
For a long moment O'Neill stared at him then paused to watch the
horses. They'd calmed down a bit and were resting after their run.
"You think you can handle them?" he finally asked.
"I don't think I can. I know it! Look at them," Methos pleaded.
"They've got strength and endurance and that fool Archimedes can't
even see it! We can buy them for a song and sell them when we get to
Egypt for ten times what he'll charge us here."
"I must be losing it," O'Neill finally muttered. "All right, Methos.
Permission granted. Go buy the horses."
It wasn't quite that easy as they soon discovered. Archimedes, already
fearful of charges being brought against him by the man who'd been
injured, was loath to allow Methos into the corral. He was so young
and couldn't possibly have enough experience to handle The Beast as
Archimedes called the white stallion. Look what had happened to Anoos.
A man twice his age who'd spent his whole life around horses. Finally,
Methos made him an offer he couldn't refuse. He'd pay him for one
horse, in advance, and if he couldn't sit the animal Archimedes could
keep the money.
The old man laughed long and hard at that. "If you can sit The Beast,
boy, you can have the others for the price of the one."
"That's a deal," Methos grinned as they shook forearms. He looked at
Jack who simply rolled his eyes and shook his head as the Immortal
handed over the money. "Do me a favor, Yanos?" he asked as he shrugged
off his himation and folded it neatly.
"Carry your broken body off the field of battle?" O'Neill asked
sarcastically.
Methos chuckled. "That too when the time comes. Right now, just hold
onto these." He handed over his cloak and sword then quickly stripped
off his long chiton which would only get in the way, tossing it
casually over his shoulder. Then, naked but for his sandals, Methos
approached the animal cautiously.
Around the paddock a crowd gathered, probably eager for more blood and
violence. But Methos knew better. He moved and as the stallion
followed turned him into the sun, quickly darting around to wrap the
tunic about its head, covering his eyes. The Beast moved nervously for
a few moments until he finally settled. Then, quick as he could,
Methos grabbed the horse's mane and jumped on his back, knotting his
fingers deeply into the full tufts at his neck. The stallion remained
quiescent for an instant then shook his head in confusion. The loosely
wrapped chiton fell away and the horse suddenly went wild.
Methos held on for what seemed like endless hours as the stallion
bucked and twisted. His shoulders burned with the effort to keep his
hands in place while his spine seemed to jar further out of alignment
with every painful second. Long minutes later the horse finally
understood that he couldn't throw his rider and Methos heaved a sigh
of relief as the animal quieted. He leaned forward, wincing as his raw
backside slid against the rough brush of the stallion's coat, wrapping
stiff arms around the animal's neck while whispering soft words of
encouragement into his ear. Stifling a groan of agony he slid off,
then pulled the stallion's head down and gently blew in his nostrils.
There were more soft words and a brief time spent patting the animal's
nose, until Methos judged him calm enough to release.
A roar of applause sprang up as The Beast trotted off to graze -- a
beast no longer -- but Methos simply ignored it to find and put on his
dusty but undamaged chiton, and hide his quickly healing posterior.
The rest he would pay for later, he knew with painful certainty as he
headed for the exit and Archimedes, who looked both pleased and
disappointed all at once. He might be quit of three obstreperous
horses, but he was also out a good sum of money. A well deserved loss,
in Methos' opinion.
"I'll be by to collect my horses tomorrow!" he called to the old man,
who simply waved a hand in acceptance and nodded, then he grabbed
Jack's arm and hurriedly led him away.
"What's the rush?" O'Neill asked as they reached the town proper and
Methos ducked around the corner. He caught the Immortal just as he
fell, lowering him gently to the ground as he groaned in agony, every
muscle in his body suddenly seizing up.
"Shit! Shit!" Methos hissed as he writhed and curled, pressing his
legs together as his thigh muscles cramped so tightly he thought he'd
scream.
"What the hell is wrong?!" O'Neill demanded.
"What the hell do you think is wrong?!" Methos managed to gasp. "That
hurt!"
"Well, yeah," O'Neill nodded. "Especially the bare ass routine. But
you're Immortal. So..."
"So nothing," Methos choked. "I just pulled every muscle in my body.
But they aren't damaged! Stretching them is a natural process, like
heartburn. I may not get an ulcer, but it sure as hell hurts!"
"Oh, brother!" O'Neill muttered, throwing down his pack as he knelt
beside the Immortal. He quickly found what he wanted and pulled out a
large white tablet. "Here," he said, getting an arm around Methos'
shoulders. "Get this down."
"I'm an Immortal! Don't be absurd," Methos whispered as he quickly
became exhausted. "Give me a few minutes and I'll get moving. If I
stay warm tonight it might not be too bad in the morning."
"Unacceptable," O'Neill responded flatly. "I need you on your feet
now, not in a couple of days. Besides, I'm making it an order. And
what do you mean you can't take pain meds because you're immortal?
What kind of idiotic idea is that?"
Methos stared at Jack in astonishment then glanced at the tablet. It
certainly couldn't hurt. And he'd prescribed similar pain relief for
countless others, though he'd never once considered it for himself. In
truth, the idea had never occurred to him. With a faint sense of
trepidation Methos took the pill and stuck it in his mouth, grimacing
an instant later as the bitter medicinal taste of the thing made him
want to wretch.
"Ech!" He spat out the tablet as O'Neill laughed, giving him some
water.
"Don't tell me you've never done drugs?!" he chortled, picking up the
tablet and cleaning it off.
"Only the really good pharmaceuticals," Methos grimaced as he wiped
his mouth. "But I never popped pills or used needles. My last foray
into the ozone layer came in a sugar cube and went by the curious name
of Mellow Yellow."
"You've never taken a pill?!"
Methos shook his head, struggling to sit up. "And after that, I never
want to. That's awful!"
O'Neill's shoulders shook with mirth. "You're not supposed to bite and
swallow. Just swallow."
Methos shrank back as he offered it again, until O'Neill sighed in
disgust and grabbed his face. "Tilt back, open wide, tongue down," he
ordered.
He could barely move a muscle to walk, let alone fight, so Methos
simply squeezed his eyes shut and gave in to the horror. It felt too
big for his throat as the tablet touched the back of his tongue and he
nearly gagged. But there was water being sloshed into his mouth and
O'Neill shouting the unhelpful phrase, "Think oyster!" as he shoved
Methos' jaws closed, rubbed a thumb across his Adam's apple and forced
him to swallow. At last, Jack released him and Methos fell back,
coughing hard.
"Your bedside manner sucks!" he hissed when he'd finally caught his
breath, wiping his face with the back of a hand.
"And you're a lousy patient," O'Neill shrugged. "Now eat this," he
added, shoving one of the leftover honeyed dough balls at Methos.
"I'm not a child," Methos grimaced. "The spoonful of sugar technique
won't work with me. I'm still pissed at you!"
"This isn't a treat," O'Neill explained calmly. "I just put eighteen
hundred milligrams of Ibuprofen in your stomach. You need to eat
something to keep from puking it up."
"Eighteen hundred?!" Methos exclaimed, horrified as he quickly
accepted the food.
"Yeah, we use it for gun shot," O'Neill told him. "Now, just sit back.
Takes about twenty minutes before it really kicks in."
"Sit back?" he asked around the food in his mouth. "In another twenty
minutes I won't be able to walk at all! I have to keep moving!"
"No, you don't have to keep moving. You have to sit back and rest."
"But--"
"Who are you going to trust?" O'Neill grinned. "A bunch of ignorant
Immortals who've never thought of using modern medicine? Or me?" he
asked smugly. "You know, there's a reason Doc Fraiser is always nearby
when I come through the Stargate."
Chapter 14
"How y' feelin', sport?"
Methos yawned and stretched luxuriously in his bed roll, sighing in
contentment as not a single twinge interfered with his pleasure. When
O'Neill had helped him back to the field where they'd planned to camp
he'd been sore, but thankfully, not in what he'd consider a great deal
of pain. He'd figured he'd still be a bit stiff come morning, but
there wasn't even that.
"I feel fine," he murmured in amazement, recalling the night before.
"In fact, I feel great."
"Good," O'Neill grinned, throwing Methos his chiton. "Next time, don't
argue so much and I'll give you a lollipop."
Methos rolled his eyes and slipped the tunic over his head. "There
won't be a next time," he said. "We can't replace Ibuprofen. I won't
let you empty the med kit just because I have a few aches and pains."
"Wasn't from the kit," O'Neill told him as he rolled up his blankets.
"That came from my own personal stash."
Methos looked up, surprised. As he recollected, modern soldiers never
gave up their private caches of pain killers -- not unless the
Sergeant was dying, or their best buddy was gut shot, or something
equally horrendous. For themselves, there was always a little more
pain they could tolerate, a bit more discomfort they were willing to
endure. And O'Neill went on to confirm this observation.
"I never take all the pain meds Fraiser gives me. But I've learned
over the years to keep some stuff on hand. Just in case."
"Smart," Methos nodded, vaguely wondering how he'd managed to achieve
best buddy status, because from the way O'Neill generally treated him,
he certainly wasn't the feared and revered Drill Sergeant. Unless, of
course, one considered the other option. Perhaps the colonel thought
of him as the annoying kid brother who needed lots of looking after.
Now there was an unsettling thought.
"We done here?" O'Neill asked, grabbing his pack as Methos stood,
tossing his cloak over his shoulders.
"Almost," he responded, pinning his himation about his shoulders. "We
need supplies for the road and a few more things to complete our
little ruse, then we can leave."
O'Neill heaved a sigh of resignation as they started back toward the
market and Methos hid a smile. He imagined the colonel was dreaming of
nice airy shopping malls with food courts and canned music. Instead,
Methos found an open stall selling a proper farmer's breakfast of hard
boiled eggs, goat cheese, bread, raw onions and wine mixed with three
parts water.
They ate it hunkered against a wall watching the sun come up and the
town come to life. Shops opened, slaves came down to the wells to
fetch water for the households, farmers with tools on their shoulders
headed out into the fields, and pack animals with their burdens
carried goods to and fro while sleepy children rode their backs making
their morning deliveries. A day like any other Methos had seen
repeated in a thousand variations for as long as he could remember.
And, he supposed, it was the same in the future. Though the shops
opened at the slothful hour of nine or ten, the farmers had tractors
or trucks, and goods came to brightly lit, scrupulously clean
supermarkets in big rigs driven by adults. Still, it was the same old
dance, if dressed in new clothes.
They finished eating and stood, Methos rubbing his stomach to ease the
passage of the onion. He still loved the taste of them raw, but he'd
forgotten just what a whole one, even as small as that one had been,
did to him.
O'Neill caught the movement and shook his head. "Don't tell me," he
sighed. "You've got heartburn."
Methos only shrugged. "Onions were thought to be good for the
digestion," he explained as the colonel once again delved into his
pack.
"Meet Mr. Tums," O'Neill said, handing him a very large pink tablet.
"He's an old friend. Remind me to introduce you to his good buddy,
Uncle Pepcid, when we get home."
Methos looked aghast at the size of the thing. "I can't swallow that!"
"Trust me, if it's pink and smells like a cherry you can chew the
sucker."
Well, it didn't smell like a cherry to Methos, but he nibbled the edge
and didn't find it too horrible. It was chalky, but sweet and slightly
tart so he ate it. A few minutes later he was astonished to find the
burning in his stomach gone.
"You know," he said as they reached the open market. "I'm beginning to
rethink my stance on the usefulness of modern medicine for Immortals.
If it won't kill us permanently, we tend to just tough it out. Now I'm
not so sure. I might even go back to medical school," he added
enthusiastically. "You know, I've always wanted to do a heart
transplant. Or maybe kidneys. Those are interesting, too."
O'Neill just stared at him. "Could we focus here," the colonel
pointedly reminded. "Remember? Mission. Egypt. End of world. Kinda
puts a damper on the whole Ben Casey thing, don't y' think?"
"But we're here," Methos smiled, nodding at the nearest stall.
"We came back to buy jewelry?!" O'Neill whispered angrily.
"But it's for Daniel, Teal'c and Carter," Methos told him, looking
wounded.
O'Neill rubbed his face with a hand. "Is this something I need to be
here for?" he finally asked.
"Not really," Methos responded, hiding a smile. "I also have to buy
more clothes for us. Something really ostentatious this time."
"Great, more skirts," O'Neill sighed. "You have fun. I'm gonna watch
the big sweaty guys making armor."
Methos laughed and hurriedly reached under his chiton to pull out a
few coins for Jack. "Enjoy yourself," he smiled. "And don't pay more
than half what I just gave you, unless it's a full set of armor with a
thick quilted padding and good leather straps."
He'd never buy it, Methos knew as the colonel sauntered off looking
relieved. Not when he learned he'd have to strip for the measuring and
have parts of his body shaved for the molding -- then wait several
weeks to get the finished product back. But they could always use a
couple of good shields and O'Neill was sensible enough to do just
that. Besides, he thought, turning to examine a set of earrings he'd
had his eye on, learning how to handle money and be at ease in a crowd
was just as important as knowing how to trounce the enemy on the field
of battle.
***
The sun was just beginning to dip into the western sky as Methos stood
watching the slaves bring a steady stream of goods and supplies out to
the ox cart. It stood just a quarter mile from the last house that
could be considered a part of the town, but the streets had been too
narrow for Methos to even consider bringing it inside. Still, it was a
common enough occurrence for the shopkeepers not to worry over,
especially during the spring market.
As soon as the cart was loaded the overseer who'd sold them the oxen
came by and Methos handed him a coin. The man had done a very good job
buying the cart, which even had its own small awning for when the
women were traveling. And after giving the overseer the rest of the
money for the oxen along with his fee, the man had offered to direct
the slaves bringing out their supplies. Certainly, Methos could have
done it himself, but he wasn't much interested in directing slaves at
the moment. He was thinking about his new horses.
Five days, maybe six to get back to camp since they'd have to stick to
the main roads, and at least two weeks to get the horses ready. Not to
mention teaching the others how to ride virtually bareback. A leather
saddle pad was not at all the same as a modern saddle. And without
stirrups, which hadn't yet been invented, sitting a horse meant the
knees did most of the painful work of holding the rider up.
When both the overseer and the slaves were gone, he looked over at
O'Neill, who was lying on his back sprawled across the grain sacks,
playing with a long blade of sweet grass stuck between his teeth. He'd
done well at the armorer's. Buying a decent pair of shields, plain
enough for real soldiers to be carrying, and one ridiculously
ornamental one covered in flying sea creatures chased in silver, with
wings and tails that swept up and away from its surface. Not the least
bit useful in a real fight, where all those pretty fetishes could
easily catch a sword tip. If Methos hadn't known better he'd have
thought Jack knew exactly what he was planning.
"Hey, Yanos!" Methos called up and Jack glanced down. "Think you can
watch the cart for a while?"
"Oh, yeah!" O'Neill said as he sat up and nodded, fingering one of a
pair of small daggers he'd also purchased. The other was strapped to
the inside of his forearm. "Not a problem."
At that, Methos grinned and hurried off to fetch his prize.
Chapter 15
O'Neill watched with one eye half open as Methos stole out of his bed
roll just before dawn the next morning and slipped behind the wagon.
Bemused, he settled back, wondering just whom the Immortal thought he
was fooling.
They'd left Delphi sometime after noon by his estimate and put a good
ten miles between them and the town before pulling off the road. And
all the while Methos had walked behind the cart talking to the horses,
pressing against them, and in general making friends with the objects
of his obsession. He'd fed and watered them when they'd stopped for
the night, giving Jack a few cursory instructions on how to tend the
oxen then staked them out to graze. And when he'd finally gotten them
settled down, joining O'Neill by the fire, Methos was more chatty and
talkative than the colonel had ever seen him.
He'd been a Master of Horses dozens of times over the ages. For kings
and queens and nobles across most of Europe and Asia. He'd bred and
broken horses on and off for a good part of his life. The last time in
1898 on a ranch in New Mexico somewhere south of Santa Fe. He not only
knew horses, but understood them as well. All the little tricks and
foibles they were wont to get up to when a strong hand was not present
to guide and care for them.
Not knowing much about horses, O'Neill had simply listened -- more to
Methos' tone of voice than what he'd actually been saying. And
somewhere in that long soliloquy Methos forgot he was giving, Jack had
finally reached the conclusion that Methos lacked a real childhood.
It was understandable, O'Neill admitted silently as he watched the
Immortal quietly lead the white stallion out into the field where
they'd camped. Given the circumstances surrounding his first death and
his revival five thousand years later, he could imagine the kind of
emotional loss and devastation he would have been feeling, even if
Methos himself hadn't been able to comprehend why he felt that way.
As a good commander it was O'Neill's job to look for that kind of
thing. To judge and estimate the best way to handle his people based
on their emotional wants and needs. Shouting worked for some, while a
kind word and gentle encouragement worked better with others. Methos
on the other hand, needed to be teased and cajoled into acting.
Despite his great age, he was still a playful twenty-something
whenever he forgot to be the ancient Immortal striding fearlessly
through history.
With a sigh, O'Neill rose up on an elbow and found his binoculars,
watching through the half light peeking over the horizon as Methos
belted his chiton with a piece of rope, blousing the material until it
hung above his knees. Then he ran the horse in circles for a while,
finally jumping on its back before the animal knew what was happening.
O'Neill chuckled as the stallion bucked and Methos went flying. But in
a moment he was back on his feet and at it again. At least this time,
O'Neill thought wryly, he didn't have to play super macho bronco
buster in order to make a point. And from where he sat, it looked as
though the Immortal was staying loose, keeping those muscles fluid and
his limbs relaxed as he rolled with the punches.
In a way, O'Neill thought, putting aside the binoculars to begin the
familiar process of breaking camp, he had to admire the man's
persistence. Not only with the horses, but in his own life. Had Methos
ever once really given up on himself? O'Neill didn't think so -- but
he had. In his short little life he had on occasion contemplated
ending what was left of it. He couldn't begin to imagine Methos ever
seriously considering that option, no matter what Duncan MacLeod said.
And, if after fifty centuries of war, famine, heartbreak and slaughter
Methos still wanted to go on, that was certainly something for a mere
mortal of less than fifty to reflect on.
***
"Hey, Pale Rider, how's Trigger doing?"
"You named my horse?!" Methos responded angrily, pointedly ignoring
the more accurate jibe.
"You're horse?" O'Neill retorted. "When did it get to be your horse?
Listen, Bronco Billy, if those are anyone's horses they're mine. So,
bite me!"
"But Trigger!" Methos sighed disgustedly as he knelt beside the fire
to grab some cheese and an apple. It was night again and all day he
had worked the horses, alternating between them whenever they'd
stopped to eat and water the oxen. O'Neill had been pretty decent
about it once he'd explained that by breaking them on the road they
could save time once they got back to camp. It also meant that Methos
was worn out now, though he'd rested in the cart between sessions.
"Couldn't you have picked something more dignified?" he grumbled.
O'Neill rolled his eyes. "So, pick something else," he told the
sulking Immortal.
"I can't now!" Methos complained, wincing as he really started to feel
the long day in his muscles. "It's sort of a tradition, you know. Like
naming a kid. The first thing you call them after you get them home
sticks in your mind forever. Doesn't matter what's on the birth
certificate."
"I get it," O'Neill nodded. He'd been Jack for so long that he often
forgot his real name was John. And his son had been Charlie, never
Chuck or Charles. "So, Wilma and Betty won't do for the girls, huh?"
"Damn it, Jack!" Methos shouted, throwing the rest of his apple at
O'Neill, who fell back laughing. "Those poor, noble creatures," he
added mournfully, rubbing his aching shoulder. "Forever to be
remembered as cartoon characters and an overfed, dandified plow
horse!"
"Think of it as something to live down to," O'Neill replied as he
reached into his pack and pulled out a small pill bottle.
"No," Methos waved a hand as he saw what Jack offered. "I'm tired and
sore, but it's nothing I can't handle."
"This isn't a democracy, Captain Pierson," O'Neill responded quietly.
Methos frowned but held out his hand. The colonel was correct and he
knew it. Any military was for all intents and purposes a contained
dictatorship -- its first order of business to keep its weapons, which
consisted mainly of the soldiers who directed the implements of war,
at peak performance. Anything which interfered with that was bad and
therefore had to be stopped. He looked curiously at the little yellow
pill O'Neill handed him. "What is it?"
The colonel looked at the label and shrugged. "Dilaud. Ten milligrams.
Also for gun shot, but in this case as I seem to recall, it was for
getting blasted with staff fire. Works the same as the Ibuprofen, but
I was kind of hoping for a lot less fuss getting it down that skinny
neck of yours."
Methos grimaced. "I know what Dilaud is," he said, finally putting the
pill in his mouth and accepting the canteen O'Neill handed him. "So,
what else have you got in that magic sack of yours?" he asked after
swallowing. This time it was much easier, he thought with relief.
"Some Vicodin, a few Compazine, maybe some codeine. Why? You planning
to open a pharmacy?"
"You never know," Methos grinned, easing back on his bedroll and
closing his eyes. A moment later something struck him in the face and
he sat up, startled and looking anxiously around until his eyes fell
on a piece of cellophane glittering near the fire.
"Enjoy your lolly," O'Neill told him. "Oh. And Zorro," he added,
laying back down in his own blankets. "I'm tired of playing Gunga Din,
water boy of oxen. You can look after Fred and Ethel tomorrow in
between rounds. I intend to sleep in."
Methos stared at Jack then at the candy. With a shrug he picked it up.
After all, he'd never eaten a lollipop before. Not that he didn't know
what it was. They'd been around for quite a while. Still, no one had
ever thought to offer him one and he wasn't much of a sweet eater to
seek them out. Methos shrugged and unwrapped it. Might as well try
this one, he thought, amused by his own curiosity as he gave the
little disk of hardened sugar a tentative lick before happily sticking
it in his mouth -- especially since Jack would probably think to quiz
him on it in the morning.
Chapter 16
The days of travel passed swiftly after that. Once the horses learned
that their lot in life was to carry a rider, Methos adapted back into
the saddle almost as if he'd never left it. By the time they reached
the small narrow valley below the temple he was racing ahead of the
wagon and with O'Neill's bemused permission scouting the forest on all
sides.
As expected, he found signs of traffic around the villages they passed
through. People were moving again. The men going out to hunt for game
to replenish their supplies as they waited for the harvest, the women
seeking fresh new shoots of wild herbs and anything they couldn't grow
in their gardens. The common folk mostly stuck close to home, the
world outside being fraught with dangers unknown. So, it was with some
surprise as they moved up the road leading to the temple that Methos
found the remains of someone's cook fire.
O'Neill halted the cart as Methos dismounted.
"Trouble?" the colonel asked as he climbed down, joining Methos where
he squatted by the cold ashes. There were several broken arrow shafts
lying on the ground nearby which was heavily stained with blood.
"Hunters," Methos nodded as he stood. "Probably rich kids from the
bigger farms out looking for any sign of incursions from up north.
Happens a lot. Nomads looking for better grazing lands find a good
spot to settle down and the locals want to run them off. Doesn't
matter that their ancestors did exactly the same thing. They were here
first. So they think it's their duty to root them out. Kill whoever
fights, sell whoever survives and split the spoils of war."
"Sweet," O'Neill muttered, reaching under his cloak to pull out his
zat gun as something moved in the trees beyond the clearing.
"It's just us, Colonel!" Major Carter called down, moving out into the
open followed by Daniel and Teal'c.
"You kids all right?" he asked, putting away his weapon.
"We're fine," Daniel nodded. "These guys just showed up last week.
About a dozen or so with horses. We laid low and kept an eye on them
until a couple started moving to explore the temple. Then Sam sent up
a flare from inside and they all packed up and left in a hurry. That
was about three days ago."
Methos frowned. "That might not have been the wisest thing to do," he
told them. "You may have frightened them off, but they now have a
wondrous tale to tell. And there's always some joker who'll take it
into his head that the gods should be appeased, or that this is where
you should come to ask a favor. Or maybe he's got some time to waste
and wants his own wondrous tale to tell so he can get free meals for
life out of his friends and neighbors. Safer just to let them look
around and frighten themselves off with stories of angry spirits and
whatever they do to trespassers."
"We didn't consider that," Daniel admitted ruefully.
"Of course you didn't," Methos said amiably. "It's not like you've
ever interacted for long periods of time with most of the cultures
you've come across. And knowing about the people," he offered gently.
"Doesn't mean you can gauge their reactions to random events."
"But I should have," he responded quietly.
"Why? You aren't an anthropologist or a sociologist. And the whole
mindset of the SGC isn't one of non-interference with the local
cultures. It's the exact opposite. Which is not to say," Methos added.
"That what the SGC does is wrong. It's just a case of me and mine
first, you and yours we'll worry about when we have the time. The
Goa'uld haven't given us the luxury of making a more humane choice.
And frankly, I always thought the non-interference directive on Star
Trek was idiotic. Lots of things interfere with the natural growth of
cultures. And unless the underpinnings of the society in question are
already on shaky ground just meeting a handful of space travelers
isn't going to destroy it, just make it expand its horizons."
"That's a wonderful theory, Pierson, but do we really have time to
discuss the whole Kirk versus Picard issue?" O'Neill asked
sarcastically.
"There's always time for intelligent discussion," Methos responded
haughtily. "And there's no contest there. Kirk above all others."
"Not all," O'Neill smirked. "Janeway's pretty hot."
"To each his own," Methos grinned, leaping back into the saddle.
"And where do you think you're going?"
"To scout the area," he responded, giving O'Neill a bemused glance.
"With your permission, of course. I'd like to make sure there aren't
any others roaming around who might cause trouble for us."
O'Neill nodded. "Make it so, Tonto."
Methos rolled his eyes in disgust as he turned the horse and headed
out. If O'Neill kept up the western name calling for much longer, he
was going to start missing the minion thing after all.
***
It was nearing sunset when Methos finally returned to camp after
settling Wilma in the small, makeshift stable the others had built
while they were gone. It wasn't much, just half a dozen covered stalls
and a little rail fence enclosed paddock. Still, it was enough to suit
his purposes and Methos was pleased with what he'd found when he'd
arrived. Despite all of Jack's grumbling at being reduced to water
carrier and stable boy he'd at least taken the care of the animals to
heart. The stalls were clean with fresh hay, and clear water filled
the hollowed out log they'd used for a trough. The other horses had
been fed and curried, the oxen left to graze in the field nearby --
even Amelia, the donkey, was looking fat and happy.
The cabin was warm and cozy as Methos stepped inside and the wonderful
aroma of warm stew filled the room. The others were sitting
comfortably around the place in various states of dress, mostly
consisting of uniform pants and tee shirts.
"Are you guys sure you want to leave?" Methos asked. "'Cause this
place is really nice for the times."
Pillows, a handful of wet clay and a rock all came sailing in his
direction as Methos ducked under the table.
"I was joking!" he shouted as cries of outrage reached his ears.
Apparently they still wanted cable TV, pizza dinners, and a working
toilet more than the hardy, but character building pioneer life of
their ancestors. Even Teal'c was glaring at him as he poked his head
out to make sure nothing else was about to start flying. "Sorry," he
grinned. "Just making sure we're all together on this."
"Home isn't where the hearth is," O'Neill muttered sullenly. "It's
where the Chinese place knows to deliver on Sundays."
"A most astute observation," Methos agreed, finally making his point.
"Which is why tonight is the last night we will all be able to wear
modern clothing, use modern appliances, or speak anything other than
Greek unless absolutely necessary."
Stunned silence greeted him as it at last sank in. They were almost
ready to escape the boredom and isolation of their little haven and
head out into the larger world where danger awaited.
"Pierson's right," O'Neill said quietly. "We've only got one chance.
Let's make sure we get this thing right."
Chapter 17
"What do you mean we aren't going to Athens?" Daniel asked as they
were loading the wagon.
"Megara is closer and it'll be just as easy to find a ship there, if
not easier," Methos told him brusquely. "Athenians aren't always
welcome on the islands. The Megarans tend to be a lot friendlier with
their neighbors."
"But it's Athens!" Daniel exclaimed. "At a time when--"
"When it's still a backwater fishing port just like any other," Methos
finished disgustedly.
"That's not the point," Daniel retorted.
"No," Methos agreed. "The point is I don't want to go to Athens."
Daniel stared at him owlishly. Methos had let him keep his glasses,
but since he'd also had two pairs of contacts in his pack, Methos had
insisted he wear those in public.
"I thought you said the Horsemen were in Anatolia?" Daniel said
quietly.
"They are," Methos sighed. "And this has nothing to do with them," he
explained, pausing as he started to lift one of the beds up and Daniel
made no move to help him. "It's just..." he shrugged, looking off into
the distance. "I'm not ready to go back to Athens. Not yet. Not in any
age."
"You want to talk about it?" Daniel asked, growing concerned.
"Not really," Methos admitted. "Suffice to say there was a woman.
Alexa. She loved Athens and I loved seeing it again through her eyes.
And then she died. So, you'll forgive me if I'm not eager to revisit
that memory."
"I'm sorry," Daniel nodded slowly. "You're right. We should go to
Megara. It's closer."
Methos gave him a grateful smile as the front door opened.
"That's the last of it," Carter said, putting down an armload of
linens. "Except for the stuff we need every day."
"Good," Methos told her. "I can load the donkey in the morning."
"Daniel," Carter said. "The colonel wants to see you as soon as you're
finished here."
Daniel nodded as she went back inside. Methos shrugged. "Just help me
with the bed and I'll get the rest," he offered. Most of the heavy
work was done anyway and Methos wanted everything loaded where he
could get at it when needed. They'd all been very surprised when he'd
told them to empty the cabin of everything that wasn't nailed in
place. But that was all part of his plan, he'd explained, and they'd
know everything come morning.
When it was all done to his satisfaction Methos went down to check on
the animals and see that they were fed, watered and bedded down for
the night, then stopped by the stream to wash. By the time he returned
to camp night was falling and he suddenly realized he hadn't seen any
of the others for quite some time. He opened the door to find them all
huddled around the hearth. O'Neill rose first, blocking his view of
whatever they'd been looking at.
"Where the hell have you been?!" he demanded.
"Well, Mom, Johnny asked me to come by his place for a game of catch,
then Billy's dad took us for ice cream. Where the hell do you think
I've been?" he asked sarcastically. "Working hard to save your ass!"
"And because of that," O'Neill told him sharply. "I have to do this!"
He stepped away from the others who suddenly moved back to reveal one
of the finest bows Methos had ever seen, while beside it lay a quiver
of arrows. His lips parted in surprise and he inhaled deeply as he
knelt to examine their gift.
"This is really nice!" he exclaimed testing the bow which had been
made from a length of ash wood and polished to perfection. The arrows
were light and tipped with new iron heads which O'Neill must have
secretly purchased in Delphi. The fletchings were made of dyed
feathers and arranged in a pattern he'd never seen. While the quiver
itself was a masterpiece of workmanship. Deer skin stretched around
wood and tooled in a running border of leaves individually dyed green
with a hunting scene in the center.
"Teal'c did all the carving," Daniel told him. "Carter redesigned the
bow and did the fletching, so these arrows should be more aerodynamic
than you might be used to. I just helped draw the hunting scene."
"The rest," Carter added. "Was Colonel O'Neill's project."
Methos turned wide eyes to Jack, who stood there frowning. "You did
this?" he asked, holding up the quiver.
"Okay, so I took a couple of art classes in college," O'Neill huffed
defensively. "Sue me!"
Methos swallowed hard, looking from one friendly face to another not
quite sure what to say that would accurately express how he was
feeling. No friend had ever gone to this much trouble to hand make him
so special a gift. The amount of time each facet of its preparation
must have taken was also telling. Off time was precious to soldiers,
and from what he saw here they'd spent at least a good portion of
theirs thinking of him. And everything was so beautifully crafted.
More importantly, each one of them had used some area of their
expertise to create it. In truth, he would have been satisfied with a
decent bow and a serviceable quiver with a few sharply whittled
arrows.
"I think he's speechless," Daniel commented.
"It's about time," O'Neill muttered. "You'd think somebody stuck a key
in his back and wound him up too tight."
Methos bowed his head, laughing softly. "Thank you," he finally said,
looking from one to the other. "It's a beautiful gift. I'll keep it
always."
"And he means always," O'Neill nodded thoughtfully. "Which in itself
is very cool."
The others were smiling as they thought about that. Something they'd
made would be seen and treasured for lifetimes to come. A little slice
of immortality they themselves could own.
"So," O'Neill asked, daintily lifting the hem of his chiton and taking
a seat on the edge of the hearth. "We gonna eat or what?"
For the rest of the evening they shared a lively meal interspersed
with stories of home, friends and family. They laughed a lot and
generally ignored the fact that there might be danger ahead. It was
the only way to deal with it. To hope like hell that they could manage
to make their way to Egypt and successfully accomplish their mission.
As for Methos, he silently vowed that even if they failed, he would
make sure his friends spent the rest of their lives in splendid
comfort and safety.
Part Three
Chapter 17
Dawn was a tiny sliver on the eastern horizon as they rose and
gathered their bedding. There wasn't much talking as they ate a cold
breakfast of smoked fish and bread, just the occasional word or
comment about whatever task they were focused on. While Methos secured
their travel gear and supplies to the donkey, Teal'c and Daniel
harnessed the oxen and O'Neill saddled the horses.
"All right," Methos said when everything was loaded and ready except
for the shields the colonel had purchased and one large bundle.
"Places everybody."
"Carter isn't here," O'Neill reminded.
"She can take a little extra time," Methos told him smugly. "She's our
centerpiece."
"O-kay," the colonel nodded dubiously. "Hey, can I have the window
seat?"
"You'll get plenty of air sitting on Betty," Methos responded. "But
first," he said, opening the package. "Remove your robe."
"But you haven't even asked me out yet!"
"And I'm not likely to once you're wearing this." Methos held up the
sword he'd purchased and the deer skin belt he'd made.
"Cool!" O'Neill said, removing his himation.
The belt went around his waist, neatly tied with fringe at both ends.
Methos took a moment to adjust his chiton so that it bloused over the
belt, leaving the hem to fall just above his knees. The sword had it's
own girder which went over the colonel's head to hang across one
shoulder with the scabbard comfortably strapped to his back. Taking
the himation, linen now because the weather was getting warmer, Methos
redressed O'Neill, placing the folds carefully so that there would be
no impediment if Jack need to reach for the blade.
He handed O'Neill one of the shields and stood back to admire his
handiwork. "Now, you're a soldier," he nodded.
"Imagine that," O'Neill muttered, looking down at himself disgustedly.
Methos rolled his eyes and helped him place the shield over his back
so he could ride with it then turned to the other members of the team.
"Teal'c," Methos gave a half bow as the Jaffa came forward and he
unwrapped a fine linen cloak stitched with hundreds of tiny feathers
dyed in rainbow colors. "You," he explained, removing the plain
himation Teal'c had worn and replacing it with the new one, "are an
ambassador from Numidia. A very important man."
"Indeed," the Jaffa intoned.
Methos took out several heavy gold bracelets, putting them on Teal'c's
wrists and ankles then added rings for his fingers and a heavy gold
neck chain and pendant.
"You won't really need to do anything," he told the big man. "Just
look distant and regal. Pay no attention to anyone. Not even us."
"A simple request. Most easily done," Teal'c grinned wickedly.
"Thought it might be," Methos chuckled. "One more thing. Two,
actually," he amended. "You'll ride Trigger and carry this
monstrosity."
Teal'c grimaced at the hideous shield he held up.
"Hey!" the colonel complained. "That is a great depiction of fish."
"I believe there is a saying among the ancient peoples of the Ta're,"
Teal'c began. "To return from battle with one's shield or lying dead
upon it."
"With my shield or on it. Yes," Methos nodded.
"Then please see to it. Should the worst happen, it may be any shield
but this."
"You have my solemn oath on that," Methos agreed emphatically as he
helped the Jaffa hang the detestable armor across his back.
O'Neill frowned mightily and stomped over to Betty. "We ready yet,
kemosabi?"
Methos sighed in despair. "Look, Jack. Just pick a name. Any nickname!
Then stick to it. Even minion is better than this!"
"Y' think?" O'Neill grinned, then dropped his sudden mask of
affability. "Just get this show on the road, Pierson. We're not
playing here."
Methos nodded. O'Neill was right. He was delaying. "Sorry, Danny, but
I have to pierce your ears," he told the young archaeologist.
"I think I see where this is going," Jackson nodded.
"Don't worry," Methos said gently, holding up a pair of earrings that
looked like tiny lions' heads. "These are lighter than they look and
I've got a good salve there to keep you from itching."
A little alcohol and a fine needle from the med kit allowed Methos to
do the work quick and neat. A pair of gold bracelets to match and a
lion's head broach to hold his himation at the shoulder and Daniel was
ready.
"Major Carter!" Methos called. "You can come out now!"
The front door opened and Carter stepped out, drawing stares from the
other members of the team. Her fine blonde hair was curled high and
held in place by tiny combs of beaten gold set with miniature sheaves
of wheat. The same motif was repeated in all of her jewelry. From the
huge dangling earrings to the small pins that held her sleeves
together at various points from her shoulders to her wrists. She
wasn't wearing bracelets or a necklace, but the belt that encircled
the waist of her flawlessly white chiton whispered musically as the
sheaves slid across her hips as she walked.
"It's brilliant!" Daniel whispered as he looked to Methos. "We're
untouchable!"
"What's brilliant?" O'Neill asked. "She looks like an ad for the
Farmer's Almanac."
"She's a bride, Jack! Don't you get it?" Daniel explained. "A noble
bride on her way to be married. Led by the groom's ambassador," he
waved at Teal'c. "Protected by a pair of her father's soldiers. And
bringing with her a dowry of such wealth her husband could only be a
king!"
"Don't forget your own role in our little charade," Methos grinned,
bowing deeply. "The honored brother who acts as his father's emissary,
driving a fine pair of oxen and his very beautiful sister."
"So?" O'Neill asked again. "What's the big deal?"
Methos cast his eyes to the heavens, sighing again in despair. "Do you
know how much bad karma messing with anyone looking like us would
bring?"
"Not to mention the war it would cause," Daniel added.
"Okay. So no one messes with the king's main squeeze. Got it," O'Neill
nodded. "Carter, get in the wagon."
"Yes, Colonel."
"No!" Methos shouted. "You don't speak to her. And she doesn't speak
to anybody! Daniel speaks for her and we speak to him only when
necessary."
"So what do I do?" Carter asked angrily. "Just sit up there looking
stupid?"
"No," Methos told her calmly. "You are a princess. You sit demurely
with your eyes downcast and pay no attention to anybody."
"The whole way to Egypt?!" she shouted.
"Only when we're in public, damn it! You can chat with Danny. But only
if he speaks first."
Carter frowned and O'Neill looked furious.
"Please," Methos said quietly. "It's only when we pass through a
village, or if we're close to anyone on the roads. If you say anything
then, he'll be required to beat you."
"I thought princesses got special treatment?" she asked, giving Daniel
an icy glare.
"Only in storybooks, Samantas," Methos told her kindly. "In the real
world, they may have more to eat and prettier clothing, but they get
treated far worse than most other women."
"He's right, Sam," Daniel added.
"It's not that I like doing this to you," Methos explained. "But it's
the only way we can get to Megara without running the risk of being
stopped for any reason. Your very presence makes the rest of us safe.
And if we do have to stop where there are people you won't have to
stay with the other women. You'll have a special place with Jack and I
as guards. The other women won't expect you to eat or even gossip with
them. You'll be both respected and ignored by everybody."
Finally, she nodded. "Okay. If it'll get us there safely, I'll play
along."
"Thank you," Methos heaved a sigh of relief. "Danaeus," he turned to
Daniel. "Help your sister into the wagon. No one but you touches her
until we get to Megara."
Methos adjusted his own chiton, strapped on his sword, slid his shield
over his back, and tossed the rest of the gear into the wagon. Without
a backward glance at the little cabin he turned and went to his horse
as Jack mounted alongside him.
"Just for the record, Methos," O'Neill said quietly. "This plan
sucks."
Methos grimaced wryly as he kneed his horse forward. "If it gets us
where we need to go in one piece, I don't care if stands up and
farts."
Chapter 18
The houses and fields stood empty in the bright summer sun. Whole
villages depopulated in a matter of minutes. Even those unable to walk
were carried to the road where the great and mighty were passing. Only
once in a generation might such an event take place and those who
missed it would listen in rapt awe to those who hadn't and account
themselves lucky just to hear the tale.
They came out of the north it was said. Rumor flew on the feet of
children, who ran ahead to win sweets and praise from their neighbors.
Royalty is passing, come show your respect and be entertained.
People lined the roads, some having left their homes many miles away
and long before dawn just to wait in the heat of the day. But none
left disappointed. A man of rich exotic color, like the fine dark wood
of the precious cypresses of Lebanon polished to gleaming perfection
led the procession. A prince of his people, or maybe a lesser king
himself, so wealthy he decorated his skin with gold emblazoned on his
forehead. But who else, they whispered, would be sent to bring back so
rare a prize?
She was fair like the cream which rises to the top of the milk jug,
with hair of sunlight to crown her glory. Even the gold she wore paled
beside such beauty. And as she passed, her unblinking eyes held the
road ahead as though her only thought was for the husband awaiting at
the end of her long journey.
Then there was the relative who accompanied her. Skin nearly as fair
as the woman, his own hair dipped in gold with eyes the color of the
sky at morning. Tall and stalwart, a man of honor indeed, who plied
the one who might challenge a goddess with sips of cool wine and
simple conversation that might keep his charge amused.
Of course this wondrous entourage had guards. Only two, but did they
need more than that when the two were of such frightening demeanor?
They glared at the people with faces carved like granite, searching
the crowds as if they could see into the hearts of men and know who
might offer insult or danger. One was a hawk, the other a lion,
terrifying in their coldness. It was said that together they had
beaten back the Four Horsemen who'd tried to steal their lady and
hacked the monsters to death. And this was believed because it was
said. And why shouldn't it be true? If you could but look into the
eyes of these fearless men you would know it!
And as the procession passed onto the horizon the people gathered in
the road behind to catch every last bit of its magnificence. Well
pleased and satisfied that they had been blessed by the gods
themselves, they returned to their homes and their fields to repeat
the tale as often as they were able until the myth turned into legend.
***
The wagon turned at a bend in the road putting a large stand of trees
between SG-1 and their latest audience. Methos glanced back over his
shoulder to make sure no one was following and nodded.
"It's over for the moment," he told O'Neill.
"At ease," Jack announced to the others, who heaved a sigh of relief.
"You okay, Carter?" he asked, riding over to the wagon.
Samantha was slumped in her heavily padded chair which sat beneath the
awning. "Just tired of sitting, Colonel."
O'Neill nodded. "This looks like a good place to stop for lunch. Why
don't you get down and stretch your legs?"
"Thank you, sir." She stood up and stretched in a most unladylike
manner, rolling her head to ease the tension in her neck. "Come on,
Daniel, help me down from here."
Jackson nodded, moving stiffly off the hard bench, kneading his lower
back as he reached the ground. He winced sharply as he touched a
tender spot then frowned at Carter as he held out his hands and lifted
her down. "Could you not kick me quite so hard next time? I'm getting
a bruise there," he complained.
"If you'd just speak to me, I wouldn't have to kick you at all," she
replied unrepentantly, walking away to lean against a tree trunk and
do some leg stretches.
"We are all tired, Daniel Jackson," Teal'c said quietly as he came
over. "She perhaps more than we. It is not easy for Major Carter to
sit so silently on display."
"Tell me about it," Daniel muttered, rubbing his sore spot again.
Teal'c merely raised an eyebrow and went to find a comfortable seat in
the shade beside O'Neill.
On the other side of the wagon Methos easily slid off his horse,
loosely hitching the mare to the cart. He pulled his canteen from the
saddle bag and quenched his thirst, going over to the donkey to
retrieve the basket he'd filled that morning with food for the day. He
could tell by his companions' expressions that they were already weary
of the game, and after three weeks of being ogled by the masses he
couldn't really blame them.
"Cheer up," he said as he joined them, setting down the basket.
"Another three weeks, maybe a little longer if we lose another wheel,
then we can ditch this whole set up and sneak into Megara like good
little covert operatives."
"You knew this would happen," O'Neill accused, obviously referring to
the endless streams of people that came out to greet them.
"I was counting on it," he agreed. "And it's to our advantage to play
up to them. A few local aristocrats might be greedy, but they'll think
twice if the entire district is watching. It's their crops that will
burn and their families that will be slaughtered if the nobles go out
of their way to make a powerful enemy needlessly. And many of the
villagers can still tell stories of those same nobles whose ancestors
were just as poor as they are now when they first arrived, but found a
good plot of land, or killed their neighbor to get it. Blood feud is a
way of life here, and you can bet that if one tribe offends us the
next will want to protect themselves from our anger by taking up arms
against the evildoers."
"So no one is willing to do anything that might get them killed,"
Carter surmised as she finally joined them.
"Would you if you were them?" Methos asked. "They may be poor by our
standards," he explained. "But they're comfortable and content with
their lot in lives. They're warm in the winter, they have food to eat
and a few small luxuries. Maybe a vial of rose water for Mother once a
year, or a basket of peaches from Argos the whole family can share. We
might not think it's a lot, but they're happy because they don't know
they aren't supposed to be."
"Makes you wonder what a few innovations in technology would do here,"
Daniel murmured.
"Not much," Methos snorted, parceling out the contents of the basket
to everybody. "Especially after they killed you for even suggesting
it. I remember when day laborers rioted in England when machines put
them out of work in the mid 19th century. It's only in the past
hundred years that people have come to see technology as a necessity -
- and only in the last twenty that business has cushioned the blow to
the economy by retraining workers in other fields. Innovation has
never been the poor man's friend."
That seemed to end the discussion and they were quiet as they ate,
more cheese, olives, way bread and a handful of figs. Meat was for the
evenings when O'Neill could find a quiet place and attack a tree, or
when they were between distant villages and Methos felt it was safe
enough to go hunting.
"Did you hear what they were saying at that last village?" Carter
suddenly asked. Everyone looked at her curiously. "That Colonel
O'Neill and Methos had destroyed the Four Horsemen."
"I'd always wondered where that tale came from," Methos admitted. "The
Lion and the Hawk. Wishful thinking, I suppose."
"Yeah," Daniel asked. "Whatever happened to them? The other Horsemen,
I mean."
"They're dead," Methos said blandly.
"In the Game," Daniel nodded.
"You could say that," Methos responded and kept eating.
"Well, it was or it wasn't," O'Neill challenged the Immortal. "Come
on, Pierson. Give."
Methos thought for a moment, then gave an internal shrug. It was over
and done with. Whether they enjoyed hearing the tale or the role he'd
played in it wasn't really important, was it?
"It happened just a few years ago our time," he explained quietly.
"Kronos found me and decided we should have a sort of class reunion.
Only this time he didn't want to ride through the countryside laying
waste to small pockets of humanity. He wanted the entire world at its
collective knees."
O'Neill snorted in amusement. "And how was he going to achieve that
imaginative feat?" he asked dryly.
"Biological warfare," Methos answered succinctly, watching their eyes
widen. "He must have spent years studying. And it's a pity really.
Without realizing what he was doing he became a brilliant virologist.
Created a toxin to rival Ebola -- and without a vaccine. Thought if he
unleashed it on even a small part of the world they'd have to give us
everything. All the power and bootlicking he'd ever dreamed of."
"That would have lasted all of five seconds," O'Neill chuckled
mirthlessly. "He'd have just loved that Welcome To The World Powers
gift we'd have sent. You know," he confided. "Some of our nukes only
make a tiny little boom and have no fall out worth mentioning."
Methos nodded wryly. "It was insane," he agreed. "But he could have
wiped out millions before you stopped him. Maybe more if the virus
became airborne."
"What happened?" Carter asked.
"I left MacLeod a trail and he came after us."
"You were in on it?!" Daniel looked shocked.
"Of course I was in on it! Kronos would have killed me if I hadn't
agreed -- and that virus would still have been out there waiting to
destroy humanity. He might have liked the advantages of the modern
era, but he wasn't above being spiteful and petty. He could just as
easily have sent the world back to the Stone Age, found himself a good
horse and started all over again -- with him in charge of whoever
managed to survive the plague. And I knew how to handle biologically
hazardous material. To destroy the virus so completely that not a
single microbe would escape. After MacLeod took out Caspian and I knew
he could take Kronos, I went for Silas and it ended."
"So you only pretended to be in on it," Carter nodded thoughtfully.
"Wouldn't have made a difference which if Kronos had succeeded. I
would have been just as guilty in your eyes. And come to think of it,"
Methos cocked his head. "Knowing what I know now I probably shouldn't
have been as eager to take care of it personally."
"How's that?" O'Neill asked.
"Well, that story," Methos responded. "The Lion and the Hawk. When
Kronos showed up and MacLeod already wanted his head I thought maybe
it was a bit of prophecy unfolding. I mean, you never know about that
sort of thing, do you? And one of the symbols of Scotland is the Lion
Rampant. I thought it meant we were destined to win."
Sometimes, Methos thought ruefully as the others smiled at his
childish whimsy, he amazed even himself with his own egotistical
stupidity!
They finished their meal in silence, then wearily resumed their
places. Once they were mounted O'Neill sidled the horse over and
quietly brought up the earlier conversation
"You still would have done it," O'Neill said with conviction. "Even if
you weren't sure you could win."
Methos raised an eyebrow. "You really think so?" he asked, not at all
certain he wouldn't have handled it differently.
"Oh, yeah," O'Neill nodded. "You may be a cold, calculating son of a
bitch to everyone else, but deep down inside you'll always be my
marshmallow minion."
Stunned, Methos watched as he rode to the other side of the wagon.
"Kronos was right," he whispered, aghast. "I've not only gotten soft,"
he grimaced. "But chewy!"
Chapter 19
A week later they paused in their journey to rest at a hot spring in
the foothills below the Garania mountains. It was sheltered by the
remains of a small shrine to Hephaestus, god of the forge, one Methos
had remembered from his days with the Horsemen. But the old priest who
had cared for it two centuries earlier had died and the shrine must
have become lost.
They set up camp for the night and took their turns, smiling as they
rejoined their comrades by the fire. Going next to last, Methos sighed
with pleasure as he sank into the heat of the spring and slid beneath
the surface. He relaxed himself, breathing in the hot, metallic
tasting water unconcerned with drowning, until every fiber of his
being felt soothed and comfortable for the first time in weeks. He
drowsed there, floating peacefully until he drifted off.
"PIERSON!!"
A hand gripped his hair, pulling him up and out of his warm cocoon,
flailing and sputtering with indignation.
"What?!" he shouted at O'Neill, who knelt beside the pool.
"You drowned."
"I was napping!"
O'Neill stared at him in disbelief until Methos finally sighed in
disgust and explained. "I don't know why Immortals can breath under
water, we just can. Maybe it has something to do with how our
Quickenings perceive our bodies. What's normal and what's not. Muscle
strain is a normal function, but tearing them is not. We breath fluid
in the womb, again a normal function, so perhaps it--"
"Okay! Okay!" O'Neill held up a hand. "I'm down with the water
breathing. Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to take a bath."
Methos rolled his eyes, reaching out for the small pot of soap he'd
brought with him. "Well, don't mind me, there's plenty of room. And
I'm not done yet."
O'Neill frowned, then shrugged and stripped off his towel, groaning
with relief as he slid into the water. "God, I miss indoors plumbing,"
he muttered.
Methos smiled as he started to wash his hair. "I know how you feel. I
remember Rome. Houses had proper sewers with heated floors and baths.
Then the Visigoths showed up and Europe went to hell."
"Never met 'em, but I despise them on principle," O'Neill murmured
laconically as he rested his head against the ledge of the pool.
Methos grinned and rinsed his hair, then reached for his straight
razor to shave.
"So, what's on the other side of those mountains?" O'Neill suddenly
asked.
"Megara."
The colonel sat up and frowned. "You said it was another two weeks to
Megara."
"It is," Methos sighed, carefully pulling the blade across his lightly
soaped cheek. "But we can't take the cart into the mountains. There's
no pass anywhere near here."
"And how long if we just cut straight across?"
"Three days maybe, but--"
"Change of plan, Pierson. We dump the oxen at the nearest farm and
burn the cart."
"We'll lose a lot of money on the resale," Methos pointed out.
"We're not here to make money," O'Neill grimaced. "If we need more
we'll just send Carter and Teal'c out rock collecting."
Methos shrugged. It certainly wouldn't be a problem leaving the oxen
behind. Or some of the supplies they would have needed for a longer
journey. The donkey could take the rest and they could double up and
walk the horses some of the time. He'd planned for them to ditch their
disguise on the road to Megara anyway and enter the port as a family
looking for passage.
"Sounds fine to me," he finally nodded, washing the rest of the soap
from his face.
"Wonderful," O'Neill responded. "Now, be a good minion and go find
Fred and Ethel a nice home. The rest of us can empty what we need from
the cart. I think I'll give Carter the pleasure of lighting that fire.
Oh, and you'd better hurry it up," he added, leaning back. "We head
out at sunrise."
Methos frowned. "You're sure you just want to leave the oxen?" he
asked. "You wouldn't rather I sacrifice them in your honor? You know,
I make a wonderful ox tail stew."
O'Neill sat up looking horrified. "You'd kill Fred and Ethel? For a
lousy bowl of stew? What kind of sick and twisted minion are you?! Get
out of my shrine!"
Methos fell back laughing until O'Neill kicked him in the shin
splashing him. Bemused, he hurriedly hoisted himself out of the water
and grabbed his towel. If he left it to the children no doubt they'd
bring all the animals back -- and turn the SGC into a petting zoo!
Chapter 20
"He says he knows of a house that may be for rent," Daniel told the
others as they waited near the deep fresh water spring that served the
five small villages which would one day become the city of Megara.
Methos glanced up from fixing his sandal strap and looked toward the
man in question. A slave. And by the look of it, one sent to fetch
water for the household.
"Tell him to finish serving his mistress then come back and show us.
We'll wait."
A few moments later Daniel returned. "He says it's on the way and he
lives in the next village over. He won't be able to come back."
A likely story, Methos thought lacing up his sandal again, but it
could be true. Either the man didn't wish to lose the chance at
whatever coin he'd earn for his small service, or his mistress was one
of those women who swore by the healthfulness of spring water. He'd
known one Roman matron who would send a dozen slaves with carts to
bring enough water for the entire family to use every day. Which might
have been sane if the fool had thought to give some to her chefs for
the food, rather than using it exclusively for bathing. Lead from the
pipes which carried water into the city from the great aqueduct had
poisoned thousands.
"All right," Methos nodded. "We'll follow. Just let me get the
others."
They gathered up the few things they'd removed from the packs for
their morning meal then Methos lifted Carter back onto the donkey.
Like all women traveling she was wrapped head to toe in swaths of
linen.
"Almost there," he told her softly. She was hot and tired as they all
were, but the restrictions imposed on the major by this culture were
definitely getting on her nerves. A normally even tempered woman,
she'd been snapping at everyone since they'd come out of the mountains
three days earlier. They'd all agreed to get her laptop out of storage
as soon as they were safely indoors.
O'Neill and Teal'c brought up the horses while he took charge of the
donkey and Daniel walked beside the slave chatting amiably. Methos
watched in silence, wondering absently if the boy knew the kind of
gift he offered this man. Or maybe it was torture, to be treated for a
brief time as a man and not a piece of chattel. In any case, he
doubted Daniel understood what he was doing. The archaeologist in him
would probably be more fascinated by the wealth of knowledge the man's
presence offered and he'd be up half the night scribbling notes in his
journal. Not that Methos couldn't have offered him the same
information, but like any good scientist he wanted corroboration from
a variety of sources.
They reached the house which was down the narrow lane from the
owner's, a man whose brother had once lived there with his wife and
two children according to the slave. The man had gone out fishing one
morning about a month ago and not returned after a storm. As was
customary, the care of the wife, her children and all her spouse's
property had gone to the husband's nearest male relative.
Methos handed the slave a small sliver of bronze, cut from a much
larger coin and given as change from an earlier purchase. It was
enough to buy a good meal, or a cheap pair of sandals and he popped it
in his mouth to hide under his tongue. With a nod of thanks the slave
took off, seeming to carry his burden a little more lightly as he
called to someone in the owner's house that custom, or trade awaited
at their door.
The owner, a man called Theophrates, a dealer in fish oils, came out a
few minutes later to unlatch the door and show Methos the house. It
was a typical home for the times. Two large rooms sectioned off into
numerous small chambers with a low walled courtyard in the back where
there were pens for the goats and chickens. The kitchen was a tiny
room off the courtyard with a good sized oven, though now that it was
summer most of the cooking would be done outdoors. The place came
furnished with a few old pieces and at the cost of one drachma a month
it was more than a little steep.
"We may not need it for a month," Methos explained. "My family and I
seek passage to the island of Crete."
"Crete?" Theophrates asked, surprised. "You won't find any here to
take you that far. Those who were going even half such a distance have
long since gone. And none that I know of have ever traveled there."
Methos nodded, he'd expected as much and the others knew it as well.
The only way to get there would be to island hop from Megara to
Salamis, or maybe Aigina, and from there down the rest of the Attic
coast. They'd need to winter on Crete, but from there they could
easily obtain passage to Egypt.
Without explaining his business to the man, Methos made him an offer.
"I will pay you one third that for two weeks. If we find passage to
the islands before then you may keep the rest. If not then I will pay
you by the week."
"One month full payment at my original price," he countered. "In
addition to which, I will send a slave to clean the house and cook two
meals a day. If you leave before the two weeks are up I will return
one quarter of the money. If you stay longer, it will be the same
arrangement monthly until you leave."
Methos considered the offer. It was fair and the food might just be
edible.
"Done," Methos agreed and pulled out the coin. "Send the slave in the
morning. My sister will oversee her work."
"As you wish," Theophrates nodded, accepting the coin then politely
wished him well in his search for a ship before leaving.
"All set," Methos grinned as he rejoined the others. "There's a
courtyard around back where we can keep the animals," he added,
leading the way.
"It's a little cramped," O'Neill commented as they entered through the
kitchen. Everyone but Samantha had to duck in order to get inside, and
Teal'c had to keep his shoulders hunched in order to avoid hitting his
head on the ceiling.
"It is what it is," Methos shrugged. "Of course, if you're not happy
with it there's always the other alternative."
"Which is?" O'Neill asked suspiciously.
"I'm sure one of the local brothels would be pleased to let us a room,
though it might be small and rather noisy from time to time."
"There aren't any hotels," Daniel reminded him quietly as O'Neill
glowered.
"And this place comes with a bonus," Methos explained as he showed
them the rest of the house. "Theophrates is going to send someone to
cook and clean for us."
Daniel stared at him, appalled. "You got us a slave?"
Methos raised an eyebrow at that. "It's a big house. Would you rather
Major Carter do all the work?"
Samantha shoved back her mantle and frowned. "Major Carter would have
preferred that you consult her first before deciding to help her out,
Captain!"
"And if we were anywhere but here I would have," Methos acknowledged
soothingly. "But here we are and there you have it."
"I do not need or want a slave!" she stated angrily.
"Fine," he told her coolly. "Then you cook and clean while she sleeps
in the corner. Feed her three meals a day if you like and it assuages
your conscience. But don't complain to me when the local housewives
beat you bloody for showing them up to their men folk. They like
having slaves."
"We can all work," O'Neill announced trying to be diplomatic. "Just
like before."
"Are you out of your mind?" Methos asked. "If you think the women are
bad just wait until the men come after us for daring to upset the
natural order. The Megarans may be a little more cosmopolitan than
their country cousins, but not by much."
"But--" Daniel began.
"No!" Methos declared, having heard enough. "No more complaints! I
told you all there were things you'd have to do that you weren't going
to like. Well, consider this one of them."
"He did indeed warn us," Teal'c reminded them. "And this world is not
unlike many others we have visited," he added quietly. "But with one
difference. These people are long since dead and forgotten in our
time. Therefore, anything we do here cannot be held against us. We did
not enslave them. Perhaps it would be well to think of those who
suffer as merely shadows of a past injustice long since overcome."
"Teal'c's right," O'Neill sighed, crossing his arms. "We all knew this
might happen. So just suck it up and deal with it."
"Yes, sir," Carter answered quietly as Daniel nodded.
"Good. Now, let's get the gear unpacked and properly stowed. I don't
want this girl coming across anything we don't want seen."
Methos heaved a silent sigh of relief as he went to help in the
unpacking. He didn't really understand what all the fuss was about
anyway. Yes, slavery was a terrible thing. It had always been terrible
and everyone knew it, which was why no one wanted to be a slave. Of
course, until the industrial revolution no one had ever taken the idea
of completely ending slavery seriously either. As long as it happened
to someone else the practice was considered a necessity. And it wasn't
as if he'd gone out and made the purchase himself. The slave was just
a loaner. A girl to help out around the house. Surely they'd all
contacted a cleaning service from time to time and had someone come in
to do the floors and laundry? He knew damn well that Carter ordered
her groceries online and had them delivered to her apartment. Did she
think the women who cleaned and the students who brought the food to
her door and put it in her cabinets earned more than the equivalent of
modern slave wages? They got just enough to keep a roof over their
heads, food on the table and warm clothes on their backs with nothing
left over for the luxury of having someone come to their house and
clean their floors when they were tired from work.
It was all relative, Methos supposed as he removed the saddle bags
from the horses. Payment in coin as opposed to a space in the corner
and enough food to keep body and soul together meant modern children
didn't have to trouble their consciences when the service personnel
walked out the door and went home. Not to a nice, loft style condo in
the city, but to a drab, run down apartment block in a marginally safe
neighborhood, if they even had that. And did these children of the
modern age think their temporary servants were any freer than slaves
to pick up and go where they wanted? A few with courage and
opportunity might throw caution to the wind and give up the security
of even a low paying job. Most, he knew, were too afraid of ending up
in far worse circumstances than before. The modern equivalent of
slavery, he thought wryly, was euphemistically described as 'honest'
work.
With a mental shrug of dismissal Methos gave up this line of thought.
Carter could coddle the girl all she liked as long as the major made
at least a token effort to have her work. And the others? Well, they
would just have to deal with it in their own way and on their own
time. He had more important business to worry over than someone else's
conscience.
Chapter 21
Methos left the harbor not long before sunset, stopping once to
purchase a little basket of sweets as he reached the edge of the port.
For the second unsuccessful week in a row he'd tried to find passage.
Still, he wasn't worried. It was only mid-June and many of the larger
boats that had gone out when the weather finally cleared in April
would soon be returning. They'd make at least two, maybe three more
runs out to the islands before putting in for the winter to wait out
the fierce Mediterranean storms. The point of going down to the harbor
now was to talk to fishermen and sailors about which captains were
trustworthy and who might be willing to take on passengers. By the
same token, it also got the word of mouth out that someone was looking
to travel.
At the end of the street he saw the house they'd rented, looking much
the same as a thousand others homes he'd ever lived in. The only
difference being that behind those doors were four people who didn't
belong in that house or anywhere else on this planet.
He hid a smile as he stepped inside. Samantha still might not be
speaking to him after their conversation the week before, but she'd
obviously listened. The place was swept clean and fragrant rushes had
been spread on the dirt floor in the main rooms. Bees wax had been
used to polish the furniture, while dust and cobwebs no longer resided
in the corners. The lamps had been filled with scented oil then lit
for the evening. And the aroma of fresh fish cooked to perfection
wafted through the house.
With a nod to O'Neill, Methos went to his room, since they now had
enough space for everyone and stripped off his clothes. His bed was
made and on a low table in the corner he found a wash basin and an urn
filled with water set beside a clean towel.
Now this was how a proper house in this place and time should look, he
thought smugly, washing the dust from his body. Poor Carter hadn't
even known where to start. Having the girl take their travel stained
clothes and bedding to the river to be washed the first day had been a
good idea, but Samantha hadn't figured out that there were actually
worse jobs. Dumping and cleaning chamber pots wasn't something she was
accustomed to, let alone had thought about until he'd mentioned it to
her. There were straw mats to be shaken, beds to be made, dishes to be
cleaned and a host of other daily tasks that a slave would be
surprised to find already done before she started working. And
Samantha had quietly been doing all of them, leaving the girl to do
the laundry, sweeping and cooking.
Shopping for food was another chore, but he'd assigned that to Daniel,
since men did that anyway. Giving the boy leave to talk to the natives
and look around as much as he liked. Megara was one of any number of
historic cities which had continuously occupied the same spot --
though very little archaeological work had ever been done at the site.
It kept him busy and out of the house and for that, he knew, the
others were grateful.
O'Neill had volunteered to look after the animals, while Methos took
care of the difficult business of visiting wine shops and chatting to
sailors down in the port. Teal'c had agreed with everyone else that
the less he was seen in public the better. Dark skinned men and women
were not unheard of in any sea town along the Aegean, but rarely seen
this far north. As far as Methos knew, he'd spent most of his time
either meditating in private or whittling bits of wood in the common
rooms.
Methos took a fresh chiton out of his chest, dressed himself and left
the old one with his himation on a peg by the door. In the morning,
the girl could shake out the dust and see if they needed washing. If
not, she'd hang them out in the courtyard to air.
There was a soft knock at the door post to his room and Methos moved
the thick leather curtain aside to find O'Neill standing in the narrow
corridor.
"Got a minute?" the colonel asked as he stepped inside.
"Of course," he responded. "I was on my way to report. Nothing new I'm
afraid, but that's to be expected right now."
"Understood," the colonel nodded, moving to stand at the tiny window
that looked out onto the courtyard. He turned slowly, looking around
the barren room.
"Something on your mind?" Methos prodded when Jack remained silent.
"I need to know what you said to Carter," he said, keeping his tone
neutral.
Methos didn't have to ask, he knew what O'Neill wanted. "I told her
there was gossip," he said bluntly which there had been. "I told her
the women were wondering why we didn't beat her. That the slaves in
their houses were getting sloppy because they saw how hard she was
working, and that her kindness to one slave was getting dozens more
punished." Methos gave a half shrug at O'Neill's disbelieving
expression. "Even if it wasn't true they were still getting beaten
because the women were angry with Carter. More importantly, they said
all this loudly enough for me to hear as I was passing. It was meant
as a warning for her. So, I simply explained exactly what her duties
as mistress of the house were -- and that they didn't include emptying
chamber pots."
"And you took it upon yourself to explain all that without coming to
me first."
"Do you know how an ancient household functions?" Methos asked coolly.
"That's not the point," O'Neill retorted. "Protocol says you come to
me and I talk to her."
"You'd gone fishing and it couldn't wait," Methos shrugged. "I was
afraid she'd walk out of the house and get stoned to death, or at the
very least badly hurt. The idea that it takes a village to raise a
child is a very ancient one, Colonel. And if I hadn't done something
the women would have taken it upon themselves to correct what they
perceived as Carter's poor performance. I'm sorry if I breached
protocol, but it needed to be done and quickly."
O'Neill nodded slowly. "That may be true, but Carter can take care of
herself. And I'd have liked to see her kick those bitches butts."
"Oh, now that would have been lovely," Methos grimaced. "Attract a lot
of the wrong kind of attention. The kind that gets the men to thinking
what a feisty woman like that could do under the covers."
"She'd have kicked their asses too!" O'Neill grinned nastily.
Methos shook his head. "Do you want to get out of here alive,
Colonel?"
"I never expect to get out of anywhere alive," O'Neill said flatly.
"In fact, I'm usually pretty surprised when it happens. Why should now
be any different?"
"Never mind," Methos sighed. "What's really bothering you is that
Carter is sulking."
"Yeah, that," O'Neill agreed as he walked to the door. "And thanks to
you she's also stopped eating." O'Neill paused and turned, staring
into Methos' eyes as he noted the Immortal's stunned expression. "I
know you didn't mean for that to happen, but it did. So now it's your
turn to suck it up and fix it. Any way you can." At that O'Neill
turned on his heel, leaving Methos to wonder what could have possibly
gone wrong.
He hurriedly found the little basket of sweets he'd purchased, more of
the deep fried dough balls in honey though these had a variety of
fruit preserves in their centers -- the ancient equivalent of the
jelly donut. He'd bought them for Carter in any case, since most women
weren't allowed out of the house unless they were visiting friends or
going to the temple at festivals. It was a difficult lifestyle for a
woman as independent as Carter had been, but she'd done as he'd asked
and Methos had hoped to show her how much he appreciated it.
He picked up a small lamp and left, heading down the corridor to the
women's rooms -- a nod towards the decorum that an ancient household
required and that a female slave would have been shocked to find
absent. Men other than husbands and sons were supposed to be forbidden
entry, but when the slave returned to her master's house after
preparing their evening meal no one paid that little custom any
attention, except when it came to Carter's bedroom.
Quietly, he opened the heavy wooden door that separated the two
sections of the house. At night, Carter generally retired early and as
far as he knew worked at her computer. Luckily, every piece of
equipment the military provided came with solar powered batteries, so
they'd never had to worry about losing those resources. True, he
admitted as he silently approached her bedroom, he hadn't been around
much during mealtimes, so he couldn't contradict what O'Neill had told
him. But he'd believed her the few times she'd avoided sitting down to
dinner when they were all together -- claiming, of course, that she'd
already eaten. And after the way she'd befriended the little slave
girl, he'd thought it very likely she was sharing her meals in the
kitchen.
He paused at the door, seeing the room curtain wasn't completely
closed and surreptitiously peeked inside. Carter sat on the floor with
her back to the entrance. No lamps had been lit though her body was
partially illuminated by the steady light from her view screen. She
was wearing a simple linen bed gown, thin enough for the light to
silhouette her figure against the cloth -- and enough for Methos to
see that O'Neill hadn't been mistaken as he'd thought. Always a slim
woman, Samantha's ribs were now hard against the back of her gown.
Shocked, Methos rapped lightly against the door post and watched in
dismay as she started, moving hurriedly to shut the laptop, but not
before he saw that she'd been staring at a blank screen.
"May I come in?" he asked softly as the room plunged into semi-
darkness lit only by his single lamp.
"I'm really tired," Carter responded dully. "Can it wait until
morning?"
"This won't take long," he offered. "Please?"
She sighed deeply and shrugged, moving to stand and replace her
computer in the large chest at the foot of her bed. The only one with
a lock where they kept most of their modern gear. She picked up her
himation and wrapped it around her shoulders as she went to sit on the
bed and told him to come in.
Without a word Methos stepped inside, using his own lamp to light the
one set in the wall niche beside her bed then went around the room and
lit the rest, ignoring her frown.
"I got these for you," he finally said, coming back to stand next to
the bed.
She took the little rush basket and peeked under the small bit of
scrap cloth that covered its contents. "Thanks, " she said, putting it
aside and looking as though she'd be ill. "I'll have them for
breakfast."
He doubted that, but said nothing as he fetched a stool from the
corner and without asking took a seat beside her bed. "Did I ever tell
you I was a slave?" he began lightly. "Several times, in fact."
Her eyes went wide. "Then how...?"
She didn't even have to finish the sentence. He knew what Carter was
asking. "How can I even indirectly own one?" She nodded and Methos
smiled sadly. "Because until quite recently I never really thought the
institution of slavery would ever end. I always believed that men
would continue enslaving others just because they could. And then I
ran into Harriet Tubman. Or more exactly, she ran into me like the
veritable Underground Railroad she was."
"You knew Harriet Tubman?" Samantha asked, more than a little awe
struck.
Methos smiled wryly and nodded. "1853. I had a little medical
practice," he explained. "In Tennessee just north of the Mississippi
border. It was well known that I would treat slaves, but the
plantation owners looked the other way. I was the only doctor in the
county and they needed me. One night, Mother Tubman showed up on my
door step with half a dozen runaways. I hid them, fed them, treated
whatever ailments they had and sent her on her way -- hoping I'd seen
the last of it," he added ruefully. "But you didn't argue with
Harriet. When she wanted something you gave it to her and were glad to
come out of it with just a tongue lashing. I once heard she met an
avowed slaver, who after an hour in her presence came out of the
conversation an ardent abolitionist. I'm inclined to believe the
story."
"You were a stop on the Underground Railroad," Carter surmised,
quietly astonished.
"For a few years, until I was hung for it," Methos admitted.
Samantha rubbed the crease between her eyes and sighed. "I don't
understand," she finally said. "You obviously despise slavery. And
yet..."
"And yet I accept the practice in the here and now," he finished and
she nodded. "It's how I've survived, Major. Just think Stone Age and
put a computer in my hands. What does that tell you about me?" For a
long moment she simply stared at him until Methos gently explained it
to her.
"I blend in, Samantha. I accept the moral teachings and social values
of those around me and I become a part of the culture. It doesn't
matter whether I personally agree with what they espouse, I accept it
because there is no other choice for me. And in all honesty, I don't
believe I have the right to condemn anybody for their beliefs.
Immortals have no culture, no social organization which can rightfully
be called a society. Mortals make the world what it is and we don't
have the right to interfere."
"Well, I can't accept it. Slavery. It's... It's... Ich!" she shuddered
in disgust as if something nasty had crawled across her spine.
Ich?! Methos thought, surprised. He expected Ich! from O'Neill. But
Carter? She used twenty dollar words as if she minted them herself.
Ich?!
And then it hit him. He'd seen this before. With Alexa. He just hadn't
recognized it.
They'd stayed in hotels wherever they'd gone during his one
spectacular year with her. And every morning she'd get up and clean.
At first he'd teased her, telling her to let the maid take care of all
that -- it was what he was paying for. Her response had been to tell
him not to be silly. That she was quite capable of picking up after
herself. He'd thought it very brave. A refusal to give in to her
illness. Even when she'd been too weak to walk she'd clean the little
area by her hospital bed until the time finally came when she couldn't
even lift her arms. Embarrassment and shame had marred her features
every time one of the cleaning staff would come by to wash the floor
in her room or change her linen. Again he'd thought it was her pride,
but maybe it had been something much deeper. A thoroughly modern
mindset against servitude, perhaps?
"May I ask you something?" Methos swallowed hard as he broached the
subject. "Have you ever hired a cleaning woman?" he asked softly.
"Of course not!" Samantha responded angrily as if she'd just been
insulted. "I can look after myself."
"Ever sent the laundry out?"
"Only the dry cleaning," she told him, staring at him curiously. "I
don't like the idea of strangers touching my personal things.
It's...disgusting."
"You order groceries online though."
Samantha frowned. "Only when I absolutely have to. It's my job to take
care of me, not anyone else's," she added emphatically.
Oh lord! he thought. I've screwed this up royally! He'd totally
misread the situation. Carter didn't need persuading, she needed
relief. No wonder she wasn't eating. She was so revolted by the idea
of slavery that having a slave in the house made her feel... Unclean.
And by virtue of that everything around her that was touched by
slavery also became tainted and filthy. Yes, she'd done her duty.
Sucked it up and played the lady of the house -- but it was killing
her by inches.
"I'm truly sorry," he told her honestly. "Would you prefer if one of
us directed the girl in her duties?"
"I wouldn't do that to the others!" she whispered, appalled at his
suggestion.
He had to think about that a minute. If Carter hated it, what were the
others feeling? O'Neill avoided the house as much as possible and
Daniel kept himself busy with other things. Only Teal'c remained, and
he'd already decided that nothing in this place applied to him anyway.
They were obviously just as disgusted as she, but dealing with it in
their own ways. He had to get them out of here, and quickly!
Methos picked up the little basket of sweets. "These were made by a
free woman. No slave touched them. She doesn't have any male relatives
to take her in, so she sells them to support her son until he's old
enough to take up the trade of sailing. Do you think you can eat
them?"
Samantha looked faintly embarrassed to discover that someone else had
noticed there was a problem. She took the basket and nodded. "I'll
try."
"Thanks," he smiled kindly. "And will you tell O'Neill, if he asks,
that I've gone back down to the harbor?" She nodded again, only
vaguely curious as she nibbled the edge of a pastry. "I promise,
Major. If I have to buy a boat and row us all to Salamis I'll get us
out of here before the end of the week." Surprised, she gave him a
grateful smile and took a larger bite. "And no more house slaves," he
added, standing and putting the stool back where he'd found it. "That
I guarantee."
She seemed to relax as her face flooded with relief. "I'd really
appreciate that," she nodded.
Methos turned to leave, smiling sadly as she finished only one of the
sweets and put the rest aside. Still, it was better than nothing. He'd
find something more substantial for her at the harbor and make up
another nice story she'd believe.
Chapter 22
The port of Nisaea, like any port in any century, was still lively
after dark. It stood a mile or so below the villages and was almost a
village in itself. Sailors, fishermen, tradesmen and the occasional
farmer all congregated in the wine shops and taverns at night.
Prostitutes sat in their windows, or had a man outside the house
hawking their talents. Very few wandered the streets actually
searching for trade. While slaves looking to make extra coin waited
near the shops with torches to light the way home for those too
inebriated to manage the task themselves.
Methos passed a clutch of young men bargaining with a pimp, sons of
the wealthy out for a night of disreputable fun. He smiled to himself
as he passed them, recalling his own youthful indiscretions. Never
quite so young as his companions, but sometimes being taken at face
value had its merits.
He went back to the largest and cleanest of the taverns where the
wine, like the food, was of better quality -- as were the patrons. Not
really expecting to find a ship, though he saw quite a few new faces
in the thin crowd that filled the low planked tables and benches,
Methos found a place in the corner and signaled to the proprietor to
send him a meal. A few minutes later a slave brought a plate of fish
in a thick sauce and bread, placing a jug and a wine cup at his elbow.
He was just finishing when a commotion sounded near the door. Not
trouble from the laughter surrounding the new arrival, but a welcome
addition apparently. Methos looked up as the men called out their
greetings.
"Hail Gyganes! That shrew of a daughter-in-law drove you out again
tonight, eh?!"
The newcomer, a stout man of some years with a face so seamed with
lines and wrinkles that he could have personified the term weather
beaten nodded sadly.
"My friends," he told them. "It is a wonderful thing to have the
wealth of five sons, but never let your eldest marry a harpy!"
Even Methos chuckled under his breath at that as a few nodded their
agreement. He watched in surprise as the tavern owner himself served
the old man, then said something quietly and pointed to Methos.
Excusing himself from his friends, Gyganes took his plate and cup and
came to sit at Methos' table.
"My friend says you are called Methos and are looking for passage to
the islands," Gyganes stated.
Methos nodded, ignoring the abruptness of his words. The sea created a
different kind of society. One less apt to be tolerant of the extreme
politeness more commonly used. "My family and I are traveling south,"
he explained quietly. "Have you a ship?"
"I have five ships," Gyganes said proudly. "One for each son to sail
for me."
A man of wealth indeed, Methos thought admiringly. It was not easy to
extract riches from the sea and to have been so successful meant
Gyganes was a man of some daring.
"Would one of those ships be headed where we are going?"
"And where exactly would that be?"
"To Crete, eventually."
"Crete," Gyganes echoed with a wistful sigh. "I have always wanted to
go there. No reason. But it would be nice to die having seen the
island of the Minotaur."
Methos hid his surprise. Whimsical ideas of traveling to far away
places for the sake of adventure were not widely accepted yet. Not
here anyway.
"If you had a ship I could pay you well for the voyage," Methos
offered.
Gyganes laughed. "Now that would be something. To be paid for having a
foolish dream."
"Why is it foolish?" he asked. "If you can make the journey why not do
it?"
Gyganes sat back and stared at him. "I never thought of it that way.
And an old man should have some say in the manner of his dying."
"Every man should," Methos agreed.
"Very true," he nodded. "But all my sons are on their ships and my
eldest grandson, a fine young man, has only a small boat for the short
trade with Athens."
Methos nodded slowly. The old man seemed willing if he could only be
persuaded. "If you knew of a ship for sale I would buy it. Then," he
added as Gyganes stared in amazement. "I would give it to you in
payment for taking us there."
Methos watched as the numbers clicked inside Gyganes' head. A big ship
with only passengers and their belongings going to Crete and an empty
ship on the way back. Room enough in the hold to store all manner of
trade goods that would fetch a fantastic price at towns along the
coast. And when it was over his grandson would have his own ship and
the family wealth would grow.
"You are very eager to go," the old man asked warily. "You have not
offended the gods or committed some sin for which I might be punished
by offering you passage?" Like most sailors, Gyganes was obviously
superstitious.
"No sin or crime taints my family," Methos told him earnestly. "But we
need to go."
"What will you do on Crete?"
It was not a fair question, but Methos liked Gyganes so he answered
it. "Eventually, find a ship to Egypt."
The old man's mouth hung open. A whole family traveling to fabled
lands was unheard of, but Gyganes had his own dreams and Methos was
playing to them.
Finally, Gyganes nodded. "No one needs to go so far to escape the gods
if they are guilty of sin. Why you go is not important. But I would
like to see Crete -- and escape the harpy for a season!"
Methos grinned. "Then you know of someone who wants to sell their
ship?"
"No, but I know of a new ship made for an old friend who died last
winter. The shipwright hasn't had any takers and isn't likely to until
the harvest trade is over. I was waiting till then to offer for it,
but the vessel is sea worthy. I'll fetch you in the morning and we
will visit him together."
"Agreed," Methos nodded and told him where they lived. He stayed a
little longer just to be sociable then excused himself, saying his
family expected him. On the way out he remembered Samantha and stopped
to purchase an extra meal. Maybe she'd be so excited at the thought of
leaving she wouldn't need a happy little story in order to eat.
With another little basket under his arm Methos left, buying a small
torch from one of the slaves. He walked the two and a half miles home
in well under an hour, smiling broadly as he opened the door to find
Jack, Teal'c and Daniel waiting up for him.
"You'll want to get Major Carter," he told them. "I have good news."
O'Neill shouted for her and Methos rolled his eyes, closing the door
behind him as he found himself a stool. She came into the front of the
house wiping sleep from her eyes.
"Yes, Colonel?"
He pointed to Methos and the Immortal nodded. "I've found us a captain
willing to take us to Crete."
The others were jubilant as he explained the deal he'd made with
Gyganes.
"And the best part," he finished. "Is that we can move out of here and
onto the ship as soon as it's ready. Even before he's hired a crew. As
the owners, no one will question anything we do."
"How long before we can sail?" Daniel asked.
"A week, maybe two to get her fully stocked for a long voyage. We
won't be able to take everything we need because of spoilage, but
we'll be able to replace things as we go. And it's a big expenditure,"
he warned. "What with having to buy food for the crew and pay them
off, but it'll be worth it. This way we're sure to get to Crete before
the winter storms."
O'Neill nodded. "Good work, Pierson. All right campers, let's get some
rest."
"Major!" Methos called softly as the others headed for their rooms to
turn in. Carter paused as he got up to bring her the basket of fish
and bread.
"Smells good," she smiled as she took it. "Do I get a clever bedtime
story with it?"
Methos had the grace to look embarrassed. "Do you need it?" he asked
gently.
She shook her head. "No. But if you're in the mood to talk I could use
some company while I eat."
Methos grinned. "How about I tell you the tale of The Ship That
Wouldn't Sink?"
"Is that like The Thing That Wouldn't Die?"
"The what?" he asked putting out all but one lamp to bring with him.
"You know, that old B movie. The Thing That Wouldn't Die."
"Must have missed that one," Methos murmured as he followed Samantha
down the corridor. "Anyway, what was The Thing That Wouldn't Die?" he
asked curiously.
"The usual," Carter shrugged. "Some guy in scary monster mask chasing
after a lot of screaming bikini clad women."
"Now that's not fair," Methos put on his most insulted expression.
"They weren't screaming because I chased them -- they were just
delighted to see me!"
***
There was a light breeze off the water early the next morning as
Methos, O'Neill and Gyganes walked along the beach. The old man had
been pleased to meet the family he'd be transporting and even more
pleased to be invited to break his fast with them. He'd been a little
surprised at the sight of Teal'c, but Daniel's story of how Uncle
Teulokos had fallen asleep in a hot spring dedicated to Hephaestus,
only to awaken and find himself colorfully blessed by the god of the
forge had deeply impressed the man. The added inference that they had
visited the Oracle at Delphi and been told to go to Egypt for reasons
unknown only excited Gyganes' imagination further. They were on a
quest like the great heroes of old and he would be blessed for helping
them. Just to be certain, of course, he would sacrifice an unblemished
goat to Poseidon and have the entrails read. But he didn't think the
god of the sea had ever been angry with Hephaestus, so there should be
no trouble there.
They reached the shipyard, primitive by modern standards, but a good
sized factory by ancient ones where boats from large to small were
built by skilled craftsmen. There were no slips or docks, just an old
house where the master ship builder lived and his works in progress
scattered over the beach. Gyganes led them to Metosthenes, whose
family had been building ships for more than a century. With little in
the way of formal greetings they headed over to the ship Gyganes' late
friend had intended to purchase. Methos stood back saying nothing as
he walked around the vessel, impressed by the quality of the
workmanship.
Some thirty feet in length and approximately ten feet wide, it was
fairly typical of most Greek ships that would be built over the next
millennia. It might displace some fourteen tons of water and hold
perhaps twenty tons of goods or stones as ballast weight. There were
small decks both fore and aft, and a narrow walkway ran to either side
above an open hold with rails along most of the length. One giant oar
steered the ship and of course, there was a single mast for the large
square sail that would be raised.
"I'll want modifications," O'Neill whispered as Methos paused to
consider what kind of offer he'd make.
"What sort of modifications?" he asked, confused.
O'Neill looked at Methos as if he'd suddenly gone stupid. "You know,
lifeboats, extra rigging above the hold, extended decks, maybe a nice
little cabin with a wet bar and Jacuzzi for Carter, a fishing chair
for me."
Methos nodded slowly. Jack was right. They were going to have to live
on this thing for nearly three months and the Mediterranean was a
dangerous ocean.
"Gyganes," he called, waving the captain over. "What would you say if
we wanted most of the hold covered over with sturdy planking? Then,
for the sake of my sister, built a small house atop it."
The old man look surprised, but nodded. "If it did not interfere with
the running of the ship or its sea worthiness I would have nothing to
say, would I?"
Methos smiled. "It would not. We'd leave openings near the prow and
stern giving access to the hold. And there would be plenty of room for
the crew."
Gyganes shrugged. "Draw a picture for Metosthenes and I am sure he
will do his best."
"Not necessary," Methos explained. "Uncle Teulokos has told us what to
do and we are fair hands at building ourselves."
Gyganes appeared astonished, but nodded emphatically. "If the god says
this is how it must be done, then so it must be. Whatever help I can
offer, it is yours."
Methos smiled gratefully. Now they would have free reign to do as they
pleased. And once the story got around the villagers wouldn't even
dream of interfering. He only wished he could have done this before,
but coming into any town claiming religious favor was a good way to
get one killed. Subtlety in presentation was everything.
Methos glanced at O'Neill, who nodded. This way, doing all the work
themselves, they would also be able to reinforce the ship using modern
techniques and no one could say anything. He went over to Metosthenes,
bargaining hard for the ship and extra materials. The builder was
clever, but had no head for business and Methos felt no pity when he
raked him over the coals. Three small row boats and a ton of extra
lumber were added to the bill as well as a promise allowing them to
live and work on his beach for as long as they needed and all for just
a few more pieces of bronze. When Metosthenes left, counting himself
lucky, Methos turned to Jack and caught Gyganes smiling. Business
sense was not much appreciated among the Greeks yet. The economy of
investing in the future or hedging ones bets almost completely
unknown.
"A fine son you have there, Yanos," the old man said proudly. "He
speaks well for his family."
O'Neill raised an eyebrow. The only familial designations they'd given
Gyganes so far were for Teal'c and Carter. For all the old man knew,
Methos and Daniel could have been his brothers. On the other hand,
this could make things interesting.
"Yes, he's a good boy," Jack agreed enthusiastically, reaching out to
hug Methos shoulders and ruffle his hair mercilessly. "Sometimes he's
a handful, but I think I'll keep him."
"Thank you, Father," Methos gritted as O'Neill wetly kissed his
forehead and the old man grinned.
"Now, if you'll excuse us, Gyganes," the colonel said. "I need to
inform the rest of the family to begin packing. Come on, son," he
added expansively, leading Methos away by the back of the neck. "I'll
buy you some candy."
Chapter 23
Methos stared in dismay as O'Neill ladled another helping of fish onto
his platter, but with Gyganes and his crew joining them for dinner
there was really nothing he could do to stop him. It had taken nearly
two weeks to make the necessary alterations to the ship, boiling olive
oil down to make pitch, redesigning the hold to carry the horses and
donkey which O'Neill had decided they should keep as well, then
building the center deck and cabin.
"Go on, son, eat hearty," the colonel grinned. "Your mother always
said you were too thin."
Silently, the ancient Immortal vowed that if it was the last thing he
did he'd get Jack for this.
Daniel gave him a wide smile as Methos savagely bit the head off his
fish and spat it into the fire.
"Tough being the baby of the family, isn't it?" the young
archaeologist snickered. Beside him, Carter's shoulders shook with
silent laughter.
"Apparently, our fearless leader has developed a deep atavistic need
to torment really old people," Methos muttered angrily, picking
absently at the unwanted fish. "And you two infants aren't far
behind."
"It's not his fault Gyganes made an assumption," Carter whispered.
"Well, he could have corrected him," Methos retorted. "We're
unmarried, remember? And while it might be good for your ego to be
considered a child in public, mine isn't doing handstands over it."
"Something wrong, kids?" O'Neill asked across the fire. He and Gyganes
had been discussing the joys of fishing.
"Nothing, Father," Samantha responded cheerfully. "Methos was just
fussing."
The Immortal groaned silently. He should never have suggested the
family motif. On second thought, he probably should never have signed
those damned documents at the SGC.
"Fussing, is he?" O'Neill nodded thoughtfully, getting up. "Come on,
son. Let's take a walk."
With a heartfelt sigh at the absurdity of it all, Methos put down his
plate and followed Jack along the beach. The moon was going down now
and as soon as the tide turned they would be leaving. Gyganes had been
very impressed with their modifications and with a crew of four hand-
picked men the old captain knew and trusted, Methos felt they were in
good hands.
O'Neill paused at the edge of the water staring out toward Salamis.
"There a problem, Methos?"
The Immortal thought for a moment then shook his head. It wasn't a
problem, he realized, just an annoyance. "No," he answered quietly.
O'Neill nodded. "Because if there is, I think we need to talk about
it."
"I don't need a father-son lecture," Methos sneered. "It's
just...irritating."
The colonel gave him a sardonic smile. "That's generally what family
is. Irritating."
"Lest you forget, Yanos," Methos pointed out stonily. "We are not a
family."
"No, we're not," O'Neill agreed. "We're more than that. We're a team.
Ever been part of a team, Methos?"
"Of course I have!" Methos snapped.
"No, I don't think so," the colonel said with a slow shake of his
head. "You've been a member of a team and a team player, but I don't
think you've ever been part of a team."
"Oh really?" the Immortal began snidely.
"Did I ever tell you," O'Neill interrupted, clearly ignoring Methos'
attempt to deny the accusation. "That way back when I went to the
Academy? You know, Officers School. I learned a lot of fancy words
there -- and a lot of weird head shrinker shit. Mostly about team
building and group dynamics. But what it all boiled down to was one
single word that pretty much said it all. Enmeshment. Know what that
is?"
"I've heard the word," Methos agreed cautiously.
"Yeah, but have you ever felt it? Been enmeshed in a group so deeply
you forgot where they ended and you began?"
Methos remained silent, not sure where O'Neill was going with this.
He'd certainly forgotten who he was on occasion. Lost himself in a
persona so completely that he'd had to stop for a moment and remember
that he was not who he pretended to be.
"What are you trying to say?" he finally asked.
"I'm saying that you aren't Adam Pierson anymore. That you haven't
been Adam Pierson for a long time. Maybe since that first trip to
Delphi. Pierson might have left camp, but Methos came back. And
somewhere along the way home he forgot to pick a new identity to hide
behind."
"I don't--"
Methos paused as he started to speak. He'd been about to say he didn't
hide behind his personas, simply showed only the aspects of himself he
felt others could accept. But something stopped him. What O'Neill said
felt right and that surprised him.
"You do hide," O'Neill offered gently. "You hide so well you even hid
the fact that you were hiding from yourself. Which is understandable,"
he nodded. "I'd guess there aren't many people willing to accept who
you are and what you've been all at the same time. And then you found
us," Jack grinned wryly. "Think you're bad? Think again," he added
bitterly. "I've killed a hundred thousand to your measly ten. Teal'c's
slaughtered millions and enslaved even more."
"So we're none of us good guys," Methos frowned. "Make your point."
"My point is, that for the first time in five thousand years Methos
doesn't have to hide. And for someone whose life has been one long
covert operation that's a scary thought. You've become enmeshed in a
way you never expected. It's easy to care about someone, then mourn
their loss. But it hurts like hell when they care just as much about
you and you can't hold onto them. So you push them away. You make it
easy on yourself. Can't blame you really," he sighed. "I'd probably do
the same. But then, I'd lose so much. Sometimes," O'Neill added,
finally looking Methos in the eye, "living in the moment and suffering
the consequences is the only thing we really have time for."
Methos sat heavily on the sand as O'Neill walked away. Sometimes he
really hated it when the children were right. He did push people away.
Mortals. Immortals. It didn't matter. None could even begin to fathom
who he was or what he'd been. And he'd felt that loss O'Neill spoke
of, knowing he could never truly be himself with anyone. Most
recently, he'd felt it with the Highlander.
MacLeod, who'd seen only Adam Pierson -- not Methos, the survivor.
Somehow imagining that the ancient Immortal had existed throughout his
life as some sort of wandering scholar -- not the warrior he would
have had to have been. But that had been easier for the Scot to
accept, so that was who Methos had been. And yet, the scholar was a
part of him. Well, one aspect at least. So, he'd shown only that part
of himself, knowing MacLeod could never accept the whole. No one, he
suddenly realized, ever had. In all his long life he'd never once
completely shown himself to anyone, not even the Horsemen had seen the
buried pieces of the puzzle he was.
And now? Who was he playing at?
Methos thought hard, cataloging his past lives and personas but
couldn't put a name to this act. Which had to mean it wasn't. And the
others had seen that before he'd even realized it was showing. More
importantly, they obviously liked what they saw.
Now that shocked him. And O'Neill had been right. It scared the hell
out of him more than he wanted to admit. To know and be known was
dangerous. It meant...enmeshment. His life entangled with other lives
that meant as much to him as his own. He'd have to live with their
deaths in a way that not even Alexa's loss or Joe's eventual demise
could affect him. And some part of him had known it all along. He was
mourning them even now. Pushing them away to keep himself safely
cocooned against the loss. They were all dying and he could feel the
pain of it even as he sat and stared up at the void of the stars.
But that's what Jack had meant when he'd talked about the consequences
of living one's life. Living in the now without anticipating the
future. They teased him because they liked him, and he both loved and
hated them for it. Hated the fact that they'd die and he could do
nothing to stop it. Hated the fact that he'd go on and maybe never
share that wonderful sense of totally belonging with anyone again. It
hurt so bad he wanted to rail against the curse of his Immortality,
instead of seeing it as the blessing he'd always thought it was.
And he loved them because they saw him. A terrifying concept. He was
known. But instead of running, some part of him wanted to stay and let
it all hang out. Be the warrior and the scholar. The complex, many-
faceted individual he was. Soak up their approval and revel in it. But
to do that, he'd have to live in the moment. Accept the consequences
of living life, instead of peeking through a tiny tear in the fabric
of the tent wall. Most of all, he'd have to stop mourning them before
they were gone and get on with the business of sharing the same space
and time. They weren't walking corpses -- and he wasn't either.
Distantly, Methos heard a voice call out from the fire that the tide
was turning. Indeed it was, he thought with a hint of self-mockery. It
was time to go. And time to live, however briefly, with the strange
little family the fates had thrown his way. Because, if he really
thought about it, that was all he really had time for.
Chapter 24
With each passing day Gyganes and his crew grew more familiar with the
strange customs of their passengers. They did not interfere, merely
watched, bemused, as Yanos fished from a chair nailed to the stern, or
Danaeus made scratches in the thing he called a book. Samantas also
drew strange pictures, but on a slate, making her own scratch marks
which she often discussed with Danaeus. And while they were thus
occupied, Uncle Teulokos fashioned new toys to amuse his favorite
nephew, Methos, who spent an inordinate amount of time avoiding his
family and eagerly helping the crew.
As was the way of sailing in these days, the ship kept within sight of
land whenever possible, stopping at islands large and small along the
way to take on water, fresh food and fruit. At night, and again when
possible, they would pause in their journey, pulling into one of the
thousands of tiny bays and inlets that dotted the coast. It gave
Methos a chance to exercise the horses and hunt to supplement their
food, though many of the places they stayed were no more than rocky
atolls with a surplus of birds.
Weeks then months passed in this way as their slow journey south
continued. Sometimes the winds were good. Sometimes there were days
when they barely moved at all. Storms came and went slowing their
progress even further as they made for land and anchored themselves
tight each time. And it was mid-September when they finally came
within weeks of their goal...
***
I really do hate the sea, Methos thought sickly, lurching forward as
the ship rolled drunkenly in another swell. He made it to the rail,
bracing himself as he breathed in the cool clean air. It wasn't so
much the weather that was bothering him, he knew, but the stench
slowly creeping up into the cabin from the hold. They'd tried their
best to keep it sanitary, but try as they might with the ship so
unsettled the muck strewn floor was impossible to clean -- not without
first getting the animals off -- and that wasn't likely to happen for
a while.
"Good morning, son!" O'Neill called ebulliently as he strolled around
the deck, ignoring the fine mist of rain. The colonel seemed to
positively thrive in bad weather.
Methos closed his eyes, sighing in despair. He really didn't want to
deal with this right now. "Morning," he muttered sullenly.
"You look awful!" O'Neill commented as he came up beside the Immortal.
"I'm fine," Methos lied. "Just had a bad night." The last thing he
needed was to be fussed at by the others. They were still having way
too much fun with the baby brother routine, though he did rather like
all the amusing little toys Teal'c made to while away the hours of
boredom aboard ship. He just enjoyed baiting the others with frowns
and snide remarks ever so much more.
"Poor kid," O'Neill told him sympathetically. "Why don't you go check
on your pets then take a little nap? Looks like we're going to be here
a while."
The mere mention of the animals made Methos grip the rail until his
knuckles turned white, biting his lip to keep the nausea under
control. "Sure," he nodded, turning away and completely missing
O'Neill's look of concern when he didn't come back with a smart ass
remark.
He headed for the trap door that led to the hold. He could do this,
Methos told himself firmly. This was the Mediterranean, not the
Atlantic. He wasn't in a row boat covered in filth and excrement with
a handful of chanting Irish monks on his way to Iceland. Horse dung
smelled different.
Oh, shit! he thought desperately as he opened the door and the hot,
fetid air from below hit him. Not different enough, apparently. Methos
was at the rail heaving painfully before he even realized he was
moving. Behind him, O'Neill was suddenly holding his shoulders and
rubbing his back in slow comforting circles which eased the knotted
muscles even as he tensed for another bout. A few minutes later he
went limp, not caring when O'Neill slowly led him back to the cabin
and gently helped him to a bed roll.
"We got any Dramamine?" the colonel asked quietly and Samantha nodded,
going to fetch the med kit.
"I'm not sea sick," Methos whispered, wiping his face with a damp rag
someone handed him.
"Could have fooled me," O'Neill muttered.
"Well, not very," he admitted tiredly as the boat rose and fell,
turning his stomach. "It's a combination. The sea and the smell from
below. Reminds me of a bad trip I once took."
Daniel brought water as Samantha handed O'Neill the little foil packet
of pills.
"Whatever it is," the colonel told him. "You're down for the count.
Take these."
"I'll be fine," Methos said, the very idea of ingesting anything
making him wince. "Just don't start singing hymns in Latin," he joked
weakly.
"Latin?" Daniel asked, confused.
"Went with the bad trip," Methos sighed, then briefly explained the
problem.
"I could have lived without that fascinating bit of trivia," O'Neill
grimaced. "Now I need Dramamine."
Methos chuckled, stopping abruptly as he tried to suppress another
bout of dry heaving when the ship rolled and pitched.
"Take the pills," Samantha told him kindly. "They really do help."
He suddenly caught a strong whiff of animal scent and groaned. Nothing
could be worse than this, he thought, retching softly as he took the
damn things then choked them down with water. A while later, as Methos
felt the worst of the illness passing, he finally drifted off to
sleep.
Nearby, the others watched with concern as the wind rose and the ship
rocked strongly. O'Neill shook his head and gently tossed a blanket
over him.
"A sea sick Immortal. Who'd a thunk?" he muttered.
"Sounds like more of a psychological problem," Carter sighed
"Yeah, well. Who cares," O'Neill shrugged. "Just keep him sedated
until the weather clears. We need him alert and well rested."
"Yes, sir," she agreed. It would put a dent in the med kit, especially
if he needed more for the rest of the journey to Egypt. But if there
was one thing aviators knew, it was how to treat nausea. If necessary,
she'd corner Methos and make him give her a recipe for whatever
ancient sea sickness potions he knew. And given what lay ahead, they
were going to need it sooner or later anyway.
Chapter 25
The sound of shouting on deck filtered easily through the thin walls
of the cabin. Frightened, angry cries punctuated by thunder,
lightening and the ever present rocking of the ship. Methos was alone
in the cabin, still groggy and weak from the drugs, but he knew danger
when he heard it. Ignoring his body's protest, Methos hurriedly
retrieved his sword, staggering outside just in time to see the last
of the crew leaping over the rails. The cold air seemed to clear his
head and he moved forward against the storm, catching sight of another
figure outlined against night.
"What the hell happened?!" he shouted as he caught Samantha, holding
her against the rail as another wave pummeled the ship.
"Don't know!" she called against the roar of the wind and water.
"Something set them off. They started screaming about Poseidon and
being cursed. Gyganes tried to calm them and one of them knocked him
down! He's hurt, but Teal'c and Daniel are with him!"
Damn it! Methos thought angrily. He should have known better than to
allow himself to be drugged!. A few days in a storm like this would
have been enough to worry most seamen in this day and age. If even one
mistook a wave for a sea monster the rest would have panicked and
followed along. Wouldn't have mattered that their greatest safety lay
in staying put, they'd be swimming for land in a minute.
"Get inside!" he told her as Daniel and Teal'c appeared carrying the
injured captain. "See what you can do for him!"
"You go!" she shouted back. "He needs a doctor and I need to help
Colonel O'Neill secure the ship!"
She was right, Methos realized and nodded. The rough sea was dragging
them closer to the rocky shoreline and O'Neill was probably trying to
get another anchor over the side.
"Wait!" he called as she turned and started to make her way toward the
stern. With the edge of his sword he cut the hem of her chiton and
ripped away the bottom half of it so she wouldn't trip, leaving it as
short as the sailors' had been. "Do the same for the others! Screw
propriety! We're running this ship!"
She grinned and went to help O'Neill as he and the others got Gyganes
into the cabin. Teal'c left immediately while Daniel helped him find
the med kit. Then he too disappeared, leaving Methos to tend to the
injured man alone.
It was hours later when the storm finally began to subside and
O'Neill, Carter and Daniel finally reappeared looking utterly
exhausted. They were soaked and chilled to the bone, but Methos had
nothing to offer except dry blankets and water. All their stores were
down below and inaccessible at the moment.
"How's Gyga--" O'Neill began then stopped as he saw the blanket
covered corpse.
"He died a few minutes ago," Methos said quietly. "Acute head trauma.
There was nothing anyone could have done."
O'Neill nodded and sank down against the wall.
"The ship okay?" Methos asked, slowly putting away the medical
supplies.
"We've got her stabilized," Carter responded, moving behind the wooden
partition that served as her bedroom and a dressing area. "Teal'c's
keeping an eye on things."
Methos nodded. "If you guys are okay on your own for a bit, I'll go
down below. I need to check the animals. Get some food out of the
hold."
"I'll do it," Daniel said tiredly, taking a deep breath as he turned
toward the door.
Methos gave him a grateful smile. "Thanks."
"So, what next?" Carter asked as she came out dressed in her old
uniform.
No need to hide anymore, Methos realized with a shock, glancing at
Gyganes' still form. A pity, he thought sadly. He'd liked the old man
with his whimsical dreams and notions. The others were likely dead as
well. Not many sailors learned to swim. It was thought impudent and a
temptation to the gods to wash them overboard at the first big swell.
"First we bury our dead," O'Neill said as he rose stiffly and went
behind the partition to change. "Then we sail to Crete."
"Not at sea," Methos said quietly, shaking his head. "He'd have been
afraid of that."
Samantha gave him a curious glance.
"If the fish eat him, his soul won't go down to Hades," Methos
explained. "There should be another island about thirty miles south.
It's where we were headed before we dropped anchor here. The village
is small, but it'll have a cemetery and we can leave his name with
some of the sailors there. They'll pass it on to any ship headed
toward Megara. Word of mouth will eventually reach the family. They
won't have payment," he shrugged. "But they'll have that comfort at
least."
"What about the others?" Carter asked. "They might have--"
"They can rot for all I care!" Methos snarled, shoving the med kit
back into her pack. "They didn't have to hit him. He was an old man.
He couldn't have stopped them from jumping."
O'Neill said nothing as he stepped from behind the screen and the
major stared hopefully at him. Hoping for what, Methos didn't know.
Probably some grand humanitarian gesture more in keeping with their
modern sensibilities. If so, she was disappointed.
"We head for the island," O'Neill ordered curtly, shrugging into his
jacket. "And bury the old guy proper. We can restock if we need to and
go from there."
Methos nodded, refusing to look at Carter. He'd hire the mourners and
see to it that the funeral procession was befitting a man of Gyganes'
wealth and status. He could even, Methos thought, feeling his spirits
lift a little, perform the burial rite himself. It was usually left to
the nearest male relative of the deceased, but he didn't think Gyganes
would mind. It was after all, the least he could do -- especially
after taking such unfair advantage of the man.
Chapter 26
"Okay, campers, Admiral O'Neill is now in charge!" Jack shouted,
striding happily across the deck giving orders. "Up that anchor.
Unfurl that sail. And no sea chanteys!" he added as the team moved to
take their positions. "I hate those. Everyone named Jack has a peg
leg, an eye patch and swigs rum like a sponge."
Methos laughed. The day was bright and beautiful and not even Jack's
taciturn command style could put a damper on his good spirits. After
six days in port the hold was clean and they were fully stocked with
enough food and water to carry them all the way to Crete. And more to
the point, without the pretense of having to stop for fresh water,
since they could now purify what they had at will. Or the need to
anchor every night for fear of sea monsters and rocks, they could set
sail for deep water and make the great island in less than two weeks.
"You look happy," O'Neill said as he joined the Immortal beside the
rudder.
"I am," Methos smiled. "I like Crete. Of all the islands, it's my
favorite."
"It's nice," O'Neill said blandly. "Good beaches, okay fishing. A
little touristy, but nice.
"You're thinking of modern Crete," Methos grinned. "Wait till you see
it now. It used to be better when the Minoans had it all, but where
we're going... Let's just say it's the last bastion of civilization
left on the island."
"You're the tour guide," O'Neill shrugged. "But none of that two for
one Club Med shit, Pierson. I'm paying top dollar for this."
"Top dollar it is," Methos grinned. "And I know just the right hotel,"
he murmured to himself softly as O'Neill went to check the riggings.
"The Kronos Isn't Inn..."
***
The breeze was good and the sea calm as they approached the eastern
tip of the island. They were too far out to be spotted, but through
their binoculars they could see at least a dozen ships in the
distance.
"Looks busy," Carter said as she put away her field glasses and went
back to cleaning fish.
"It is," Methos agreed, giving her a hand. They were anchored here
until nightfall when they'd land in a quiet cove he knew of and go
ashore. "That's Zakoros. One of the best harbors on the island. Nicely
sheltered from the winds off the cape. It used to be one of the four
great administrative centers on Crete. Had it's own palace, too. Not
quite as big as Knossos or Phaistos, but it controlled all the eastern
trade with Egypt and the Levant. To a certain extent it still does,
even without the central organization of the palace."
The major tossed another fish onto a nearby platter. "It'll be nice to
be on land again," she commented, glancing toward the high forested
peaks of the island.
Methos only smiled in agreement. The rest of the trip had been
relatively easy with only one brief squall to mar their passage. And
thankfully, no need for O'Neill to get out the Dramamine.
"When my father was stationed in Athens I visited here," she went on
offhandedly. "One of the tour books said that Minoan women were pretty
much treated as equals."
"They were," Methos nodded, calming her unspoken fears. No one wanted
a repeat of what had happened in Megara. "And in Zakoros that's still
pretty much the case. Not a lot of Dorian influence in this area yet.
It's always been pretty inaccessible from the rest of Crete. Like
Egypt, women have property rights, own businesses, bring lawsuits --
and since god is a woman here they control the religious hierarchy as
well. In the old days, when the palaces still stood," he smiled
wistfully. "They could bull jump and box with the best of 'em. It'll
change later," Methos added with a sigh. "But right now, this part of
the island is still very much a Minoan society."
"That's good to hear," Samantha nodded distractedly. "And the,
uh...native costume?" she inquired delicately.
Methos chuckled. "Those wall paintings are deceiving, Major. Except,
of course, for the men," he amended with a wicked grin. "We really did
run around in mini skirts and not much else. The only women who went
around truly bare breasted were the priestesses. Unless it was a
festival day, of course, then all the unmarried women went bare."
"And now?"
Methos shrugged. "That's up to you. We won't be staying in the city.
So, you can do what you like. The local girls still keep the old ways
of course. But with more strangers coming into town they've learned
not to go into the foreign quarter without an escort. A shame too,
because Minoan women were always quite open and forthright when they
spoke to men. I rather liked that about them. As I recall," he added
thoughtfully, gutting one last fish and tossing it onto the pile.
"Four of my wives were Minoan."
"You were married?" Samantha asked, very much surprised as Methos
grabbed the tray and stood. "When you were a Horseman?"
"Yes, I was married," Methos shrugged as Carter got to her feet and
followed. "You know, we weren't always out wreaking havoc on the
countryside. A couple of generations on the road and we'd settle down
for a bit, wait until the stories passed into legend then go back out
in a couple more. Pretty scary when your granddad tells you the tale
of the Four Horsemen when you're a kid and you wake up one morning to
see them galloping over the ridge. Helps too," he added sardonically.
"If you spread the joy across a couple of continents -- just so the
villagers don't get the idea to band together and finish you off."
"And in between all this, you just...went on vacation? Found a pretty
girl and got married?
"That about sums it up," Methos said as they joined the others, who
were sorting through what stores they would be taking with them.
"Sums what up?" O'Neill asked as he neatly tied a bed roll.
"The story of how I thrived and wived," Methos said, setting the fish
aside as he knelt to pull out a baking dish.
"Wived?" O'Neill asked curiously.
"You never said you were married," Daniel added.
Methos rolled his eyes in disgust and stood. "Is everyone here?
Where's Teal'c?!"
He looked around as the big Jaffa poked his head in the cabin door,
hearing his name called.
"Good. Get in here. Because what I'm about to say is of the utmost
importance. Absolutely necessary information without which you might
all come to a bad end and have no one but yourselves to blame.
Everyone listening?"
They nodded, trying not to laugh as Methos frowned, hands on hips and
sternly told them the truth.
"Since this is obviously information none of you can live without, and
for your sublime edification, let it be known that I have been married
a grand total of sixty-eight times -- not counting slaves and
concubines. Are we happy now? Can you at last live with yourselves
knowing this ultimate revelation?!"
Teal'c merely raised a disinterested brow and left as Daniel nodded
confusedly, no doubt averaging out the number of wives needed per
century. Carter merely ducked her head, refusing to laugh aloud.
"That wasn't like, you know, all at once?" O'Neill asked dubiously.
Methos closed his eyes briefly and shook his head. "No, Jack. The most
I've ever had to handle at once was in China. Eight wives, eleven
concubines. All of them gifts I might add. Nearly drove me insane."
O'Neill frowned, looking from Methos to Daniel and back. "Am I doing
something wrong? What is it? The geek always gets the girl?"
Daniel nodded, trying not to laugh. "Sorry, Jack. He who has the
sharpest pencil rules."
Chapter 27
The tiny inlet above the small bay was completely isolated, shielded
by trees reaching nearly to the water's edge. They beached the ship
using the horses and the donkey to drag her into the tree line,
carefully camouflaging the hull with palm fronds and sand. Though they
had no plans to come back here, ever cautious, they all agreed that
sinking her might turn out to be a mistake. Then, once again dressed
in their ancient world costumes, they loaded their few possessions
onto the donkey and set out.
Methos led the way up through the trees toward the narrow gorge that
marked the steep road to the city above.
"This is the Ravine of the Dead, isn't it?" Daniel asked as they
reached the wide path that ran beside it.
"The what?!" Jack exclaimed.
"It's just an old Minoan burial ground," Methos explained soothingly,
mounting his horse then giving Carter a hand up behind him. Teal'c did
the same for Daniel then Methos started them moving, attaching the
donkey's lead to his saddle. "The gorge is chock full of sacred caves,
so this is where the locals come to bury their dead."
"Cool," O'Neill muttered, glancing over the edge toward the rocky
ground below. "So," he asked. "How far are we going this time? I
noticed you didn't pack a lunch."
"About twenty miles inland. We should be there by morning. Kronos has
a little palace tucked into one of the hillsides."
"Kronos?" Daniel asked nervously. "The other Horseman?"
"The very same," Methos nodded.
"Which one was he, by the way?" O'Neill queried.
"Kronos was Hell," Methos grimaced. "Always dogging my heels. Did I
ever tell you he was Minoan?" he asked, deftly changing the subject.
"The son of a king, actually."
"Kronos was a prince!" Samantha's eyes grew wide with surprise.
Methos smiled wryly. "Raised in the belief that he had the right to
exert his power over anyone simply because he was Kronos."
"But if he was a foundling...?" she asked.
"His mother was a minor wife to one of the Minos line in Knossos,"
Methos explained. "With infant mortality rates so high, adoption was a
very common practice even in royal households. If she couldn't
conceive and found a baby it would have been seen as a gift from the
Mother Goddess. The king wouldn't have objected if she raised him. And
he'd have been just as pleased because it pleased her. Trust me, when
you have multiple wives and concubines keeping all of them happy at
once is a logistical nightmare."
"So, what happened?" Daniel asked as the road curved around a large
outcropping of rock. "I mean, why did he become Hades?"
"Ah, well, that's his whole story, isn't it?" Methos sighed. "Child of
privilege gets a taste for battle. Likes the fear and terror that
comes from dominating your enemy. Put him in a suit and give him a
seat on the stock exchange and he would have lived for the deal.
Instead, like all the boys he went out with the men folk and raided
the Karians, the tribes who originally inhabited the Cyclades. They
were considered pirates hereabouts. Eventually, he ended up dead on
one of those islands. They buried him with all the honors and left him
there. When he finally got back -- no doubt expecting the welcome of a
man gifted by the Goddess -- they promptly rejected him. As you might
imagine, Kronos didn't take it very well."
"Everyone was fair game after that," O'Neill nodded slowly.
"Exactly," Methos agreed. "He was pretty pissed, but he headed for
Asia Minor where the Minoans had a few trading colonies. We met a few
centuries later at Troy. He'd picked up Silas somewhere along the way,
and Caspian showed up later with a contingent of mercenaries. After
the Greeks sacked our employers we decided to head out together."
"You fought on the Trojan side?" Daniel asked, a little surprised.
Methos chuckled softly. "They paid better. And besides, the Greeks
weren't really that upset about Helen. I mean, she was okay to look at
-- sharp as a tack, too, which was her best feature, in my opinion --
but not the kind of woman you'd go to war over. Menalaus was just
miffed. Because while Paris was there to tell him Troy was reneging on
full payment for several shiploads of wool, and in addition, seizing
the ships that carried it for failure to provide a quality item, he
also seduced Helen -- then ran off with her and the royal jewels. One
or the other the old man could have stood. But both at the same time?"
Methos shook his head. "And Troy had been getting over on the Greeks
for the longest time. Sometimes they'd pay, sometimes they wouldn't --
depending on whether they thought there'd be any real consequences if
they didn't. Usually there weren't. A deal gone sour for one king
would have delighted the others, but running off with his wife -- and
her dowry -- that was just too much. It could as easily have been
them. The Trojans made the ultimate mistake," he commented sagely.
"They gave their enemies a chance to think -- and the one good reason
they needed to put aside their differences and join forces."
"So what does all this have to do with Kronos?" O'Neill asked
exasperated.
"Nothing," Methos shrugged. "Except that after ten years of raiding
the Egyptian coast with the rest of the Greek and Trojan hooligans,
who had a ship or two and decided to have a little more fun before
going home to the wife and kids, he invited the three of us here. That
was during the first palace period. I'd been to Crete before, but not
in style," he sighed. "Kronos never went back to Knossos, but when we
got here he commissioned a house to be built. Thirty rooms on a
hillside in Phaistos -- Knossos' long time rival and most hated
enemy," he added with a grin. "Very grand and ornate. We hung for a
while, then hit the road as the Horsemen. About a century later, after
the first big quake, the Myceneans showed up, but Kronos eventually
came back and rebuilt. When the volcano in Akritiri blew we were on
the mainland in Greece. There wasn't much left after that, but Kronos
was adamant about keeping a house here. Said not even the gods could
drive him out of his home. But he did take my advice and moved his
little project to a more secure location before the Dorians invaded as
we all knew they would. It's up there," Methos pointed to the low foot
hills of the mountains just beyond the city. "The only true Minoan
palace left on the entire island."
"Fantastic," Daniel murmured, staring off into the distance.
"And you're sure he isn't going to show up anytime soon?" O'Neill
asked worriedly.
"Not a chance," Methos told him smugly. "We just left -- relatively
speaking. The Horsemen won't be coming back this way for at least
another century."
He didn't bother to mention what the Horsemen would be doing in all
that time. Not that it mattered anyway, Methos imagined. He'd thought
himself very clever in those days. For centuries they'd simply been
known as The Horsemen. In the next hundred years, by listening for
news of trouble in various regions he'd lead them into hot spots and
earn them the appellation 'Harbingers of the Apocalypse'. How many
wars they'd directly or indirectly caused Methos didn't know, but he
guessed the number was pretty high. By causing turmoil in already
politically unstable areas, whether their actions were attributed to
the enemy or considered an omen that war was inevitable, they'd
invariably softened up the countryside for whatever army eventually
swept through. Armies they themselves would later join as mercenaries
and thereby share in the looting of the cities as well.
Of course, he'd never dreamed they were the actual cause of all those
wars. Mortals battled each other regardless, same as Immortals. But in
hindsight, he could see that many of those conflicts might have been
averted by whatever negotiations were taking place, or smaller
localized military actions. If not for their presence and the
heightened fear and anger it caused among the participants, the
greater conquests of entire nations might never have occurred. But
such was life and the arrogance of youth, Methos thought regretfully.
They rode in silence after that. Well rested from their sea journey,
the horses kept up a good pace, stepping sure footed around rocks and
other obstacles that might impede their movement. By dawn they had
long since passed the old ruins of Zakoros palace, which like all the
other Minoan strongholds on the island would eventually disappear into
history. Unlike their predecessors, the Myceneans, the Dorians had no
use for great cities. Not yet, anyway. Their descendants would one day
build up Athens, Corinth and the other great centers of culture on the
mainland. But here, most of that was now forever lost.
As the sun touched the high peaks further inland, Methos led the
little group into a narrow ravine alongside a sheer cliff. It wound
downward, curving as they neared the bottom. Turning sharply, Methos
seemed to disappear into the cliff face and the others followed,
passing briefly through a cramped tunnel into a tiny clearing. Cut
into the stone on this side of the cliff were a series of steps
winding upward until they reached a spur on the side of the mountain
facing the sea. Set back against the cliff wall stood a three story
mansion wrapped in colonnaded porticos and verandahs.
"Wow," Samantha breathed.
"Think you used enough red?" O'Neill asked, staring at the brightly
painted edifice.
"It's what they used," Daniel pointed out. "A good non-reflective
shade that helps keep the house cool."
"Actually, we just liked the color," Methos told them blandly.
"Whatever," Jack muttered. "So, where is everybody? No caretaker?"
Methos shook his head as he led them along the cobble stone path past
landscaped trees and gardens filled with late summer blooms. "Kronos
would buy slaves whenever we got here, then sell them on the mainland,
Egypt or Greece, whenever we left. No one knows about this place and
the angle's all wrong for anyone looking up to see the house. The
further out you get, it just blends into the mountain."
"How did you find it?" Samantha asked as he took them around the side
of the house to the stables.
"I followed a goat," Methos grinned. "They're wild around here. Of
course, we cut the steps to make it easy to transport all the
materials. The goats were just fine without them."
They took some time to get the animals settled then Methos led them
back around to the main entrance.
"Most of the place stayed unused even when we were here," he told
them, opening the front door to reveal a long colonnaded courtyard
just past the entry hall. "I think Kronos used to dream he could
restore the throne of Minos with himself as Great King."
"Sweet," O'Neill grimaced as they followed Methos to the far end of
the courtyard where two sets of stairs brightened by light wells above
led to the upper floors.
"My apartments were this way," he explained, going to the right.
"Kronos' quarters were above mine on the top floor, but the others
lived there," he pointed left. "I'd stay away from their living areas,
if I were you. There's no telling what might have been left behind."
"Like what?" Daniel asked, avidly taking in the frescos that decorated
the walls of the second floor.
Methos frowned distractedly. "Caspian was a serial killer, Daniel. He
never manifested that with us, though I could be wrong. At least, I
never saw any sign of methodical stalking of victims. But he was a
death fetishist. Liked to decorate his tent inside and out with the
skulls and bones of those he killed in battle. I never saw the inside
of his rooms here, but I can't imagine that his taste in objets d'art
suddenly improved because he had four solid walls and a hearth." The
others looked appalled, but Methos doggedly went on.
"As for Kronos," he shrugged. "His pleasures were a little more
sedentary, though he often left a mess when he was done. Liked to send
in the new slaves to clean it up whenever we arrived just to scare
them into docility. And Silas," Methos sighed sadly. "There are some
nice wall paintings of mythical animals in there, but nothing else of
much interest. Off the battlefield, he was fairly docile."
"What about you?" O'Neill asked quietly.
Methos raised an eyebrow as he paused before a door. "See for
yourself," he said, flinging it open.
A long central corridor overlooked an open air peristyle set with
statuary and a fountain to one side. "This is the men's hall," Methos
explained, leading them through the first of several rooms.
"Pink marble?" O'Neill asked, staring at the floor and walls.
"Rose," Methos condescend stiffly. "And it's gypsum."
"Right," O'Neill patted his shoulder as he stepped inside. "You just
keep tellin' yourself that."
"Well, I like it," Samantha smiled.
Three sides of the room were wrapped in stone benches and at the far
end a large high backed chair carved from a solid block of granite
stood on a raised platform. A pair of limestone pedestal lamps sat on
either side while behind, shields, swords and a pair of battle axes
decorated the wall.
"Nice throne," O'Neill remarked, taking in the contents of the room.
"Isn't that your desk chair?" Daniel asked, voice tinged with startled
recognition.
"Yes to both," Methos murmured. "I told you we had delusions of
grandeur."
"Had?" O'Neill smirked as he went over and sat down, casually hooking
a leg over one chair arm as he lounged. "Comfy."
"Incredibly," Methos agreed, hiding a smile. "Now, if you'll just
follow me, I'll show you to the real seat of power -- the water
closet."
"Yes!" Jack shouted gleefully, leaping to his feet. "Indoor plumbing!"
***
"Nifty setup," O'Neill sighed as he settled back into the plush
softness of a dining couch. Feather pillows and carpets abounded in
bright colorful shades, giving the dining hall a decadent, sybaritic
atmosphere.
"It suited me at the time," Methos murmured, sipping wine from a thin
alabaster goblet. They'd prepared a proper meal, bringing it back to
his apartments, then eaten well of the dried meats and other
foodstuffs carefully stored in large stone pithoi within the villa's
magazines.
"And now you have to do your own laundry and wash your own floors,"
Carter grinned, recalling Methos' complaints as they'd searched for
where the linens and bedding had been kept as the others cleaned and
aired out the rooms.
"Adam Pierson does his own housework," Methos condescended. "I get
someone in."
"But you are Adam Pierson," Teal'c pointed out.
"He's right," Daniel grinned. "Even if you are just playing a part.
I've seen those hands picking lint off the carpet, remember?"
"Fraud," O'Neill teased.
"Oh, all right," Methos frowned. "Bunch of party poopers. I think next
time I'll be Matt Adams. Now he was a real slob. Never did housework."
"Matt Adams?" Samantha asked curiously.
"My last incarnation. Long haired hippie rock star wannabe roadie.
Smoked a lot of dope, did a lot of groupies and toured with the
Stones, among others."
"You mentioned that," Daniel nodded. "Why'd you stop?"
Methos sighed heavily and rolled onto his back, staring up at the
ceiling. "It was great until Altamont. Then Mick hired those thugs to
work security -- the Hell's Angels. Guess who showed up in the
entourage?"
"Kronos," Samantha guessed.
"Yup," Methos nodded and sat up, looking mournful. "Three hours later
I was on the first plane to New York looking like a poster child for
the Young Republicans."
"My heart bleeds for you, Pierson." O'Neill smirked. "Now, campers,"
he clapped his hands. "Back to business. We've only got six months to
get ready for Egypt and I want us prepared. Report."
Carter nodded, raising up on her elbows. "I've been working on some
ideas for a containment unit if we can locate the Ark Shishak received
before it's opened. We'll also need some form of protective gear. I
can work with Methos on what's available locally. Anything we might be
able to use to manufacture what we need. Then there's the extra power
we'll have to have to charge the gate to get us home. Teal'c and I can
figure something out there. Maybe tie in to the ship's main engine."
"Good," O'Neill nodded. "Pierson?"
"We need to synthesize some form of medication to treat radiation
sickness," Methos responded. "I noticed a couple of items in the med
kit designed for that, but we'll need more. And dyes, we'll need those
too. Our skin and hair have to be darkened sufficiently to pass for
native to the casual eye." Teal'c raised an eyebrow. "Not you, my
friend, but the rest of us need to blend in. We're safe enough here,"
he added. "Crete's always had a good mix of different races, though
I'd prefer it if Carter and Daniel colored their hair before going
into town."
"And moi?" O'Neill asked, feigning hurt.
Methos shrugged. "Sorry, Dad, you're too old to get hit on by anyone
sober enough to notice the blonde in all that gray."
A large pillow slammed him hard and Methos fell back laughing.
"Daniel?" O'Neill sharply asked the young archaeologist, who was
grinning from ear to ear. "You have anything to report? And remember,"
he threatened. "I have lots more pillows where that came from."
"Yeah," Daniel chuckled. "I do. Actually," he qualified. "It's more of
a request really. I'd like to find out as much as I can about the
present state of Egyptian affairs. Secular and religious politics,
possible military actions we don't know about."
"And this is because?"
"I probably know as much about Ancient Egypt as any modern scholar
can," Daniel explained. "But I can't know everything that went on.
There are things in the historical record that are missing or wildly
inaccurate depending on whose viewpoint you read."
"Can't Pierson help?" O'Neill looked at the Immortal who was frowning.
"Not really," Methos responded. "After our nasty experience with the
other Ark in Ethiopia we came here for a bit. In this time, we'd only
just left for Asia Minor a couple of years ago. I didn't even hear
about Shishak's visit to Jerusalem until long after. And Egypt is
different in every reign. The bureaucracy stays the same, but the
treatment of foreigners and how much graft is acceptable, that changes
with each pharaoh's administration. Which priesthood is plotting and
who's likely to be the target are also important things we need to be
aware of. Daniel's right. We can't walk in there blind."
"So we study the area and not just the lay of the land, got it,"
O'Neill nodded. "Teal'c?"
"I must create a model of the Goa'uld ship we found," he told them
quietly.
"Great," O'Neill sighed. "More visits to the talking trees."
The Jaffa merely narrowed his eyes and went on. "You must all learn
every detail of the ship. Stealth and quickness are required if we are
to succeed."
O'Neill nodded. "So, campers, the plan is, we grab the Ark, bury it
somewhere safe, then just sneak aboard and use the gate?"
"Doesn't seem like we have much of a choice," Methos responded. "By
the time we get there those living nearest the Ark will already be
dying."
"What about all those other villages, Adam?" Daniel asked softly. "All
the people taken from the area who just disappeared."
"We can't change that much history," Methos insisted.
"He's right," Carter added. "If we try to stop it there's no telling
what repercussions might occur down the line."
"But history's already changed," Daniel pointed out. "Gyganes and his
crew are dead because of us."
Methos shook his head slowly. "They'd already lived their lives,
Danny. Had families and children. Their deaths came too soon, but not
before their time."
"I hate to say it," Samantha nodded. "But I have to agree. Any changes
to the timeline caused by their deaths would be negligible."
"What if they're not?"
"Then we've already failed and all this is pointless," Methos stated
flatly. "We will live here until you all die then I will find the
gate, make sure it ends up in some bottomless pit under the sea and
stop anyone from ever going through it."
"What?!" O'Neill asked, startled.
Methos' expression went stony. "If Daniel never translates those
tablets, you'll never open the Stargate and Ra won't die. The Goa'uld
will have no reason to come back to Earth while she's weak. Once
that's done, I'll find the other Methos and let him take my head.
Because this time," he grinned ruefully, "there really should be only
one."
"So, I'll go to work for NASA," Carter said quietly. "Daniel will live
in obscurity teaching at some second rate community college, Teal'c
will remain as Apophis' First Prime and..." she paused, glancing at
O'Neill who sat staring at nothing.
"And I'll put a gun in my mouth and blow the back of my head off,"
Jack said calmly. "Which is what I was planning to do the day I got
called back to duty."
"You're right, Adam." Daniel swallowed hard and looked away. "We can't
change history."
Methos said nothing. It had been a cruel example, but he'd done what
was needed.
O'Neill suddenly yawned and stood up. "Okay, kids, shut eye time. Big
bedroom's mine."
Methos started to argue then closed his mouth. Fair enough pay back,
he thought, for forcing that confession out of Jack and they both knew
it. On the other hand, giving in gracefully wasn't in his nature.
"Mind if I get some things first?" he asked sourly as the others went
to find the rooms they'd chosen.
"No problem," Jack told him magnanimously as he led the way down the
hall to Methos' bedroom, laying down with a heartfelt sigh on the
oversized bed. "Take your time."
"You're a real pal," Methos grimaced, opening the chest that stood at
the foot of his bed and gathering up his favorite bed robe, the one
he'd been missing for nearly three thousand years. This was going home
in his pack if it was the last thing he did. Of course, that also
meant he'd stolen it from himself in the first place and he probably
shouldn't have accused Caspian of taking it out of spitefulness. Ah
well, he shrugged silently. Live and learn.
"So, where are you going to sleep?" O'Neill asked, smiling.
"The wife's room down the hall," Methos jerked his head in that
direction. "Bed's twice the size of this one. And," he added smugly.
"She had a private bath."
O'Neill leaned back thoughtfully, shoving his hands under the pillows
to prop up his head. "What's this?" he asked as his hand thumped
something hard.
Methos raised an eyebrow, the glimmer of an idea taking hold. "Bed
box," he explained casually. "Kept a few odds and ends in there."
"Yeah?" O'Neill asked, sitting up and examining the item. "Mind if I
look?"
"Not at all," Methos told him lightly, grabbing his favorite slippers
as he prepared to leave. "Just don't use the ointment in the green
jar. Tends to burn if you're not used to it." O'Neill's eyes went
wide. "I wouldn't play with the Medusa Head Vulva of Happiness,
either."
"The what?!"
"It's got a broken hasp and the spiked teeth tend to tear the skin
more than usual."
O'Neill dropped the box and jumped off the bed. "The wife's room's got
a private bath?" he asked, looking desperate for any excuse to leave.
Methos nodded innocently. "Colonels are entitled to that. And the
biggest bed. We have to have that. It's a rule," O'Neill added hastily
as he fled.
"All the way down the hall, second corridor to your right," Methos
called to O'Neill's back. "It's the first room on the left!"
Methos closed the door and threw himself on the bed laughing then
picked up the box and laid it on his chest. He opened the lid and
searched through its contents, smiling as he found the item he wanted
then put the box back in its place behind his head. "Poisons and
Potions for Healing," he murmured as he punched up the pillow,
partially unrolled the scroll and sat back to read.
No doubt O'Neill would be back crying foul as soon as he discovered
he'd been had. Then again, maybe not. Zekna's rooms certainly were
nicer than his, even if they hadn't been aired out in nearly a
century. He just hoped Jack heeded his words about the green jar in
her bed box. Otherwise, O'Neill would be sitting in a cold tub
screaming for a week -- and not just the half hour's worth of sensual
agony he'd experienced. And of course, he smirked wickedly, no
beautiful Zekna afterwards to soothe away the pain and replace it with
voluptuous pleasure. The same pleasures for which he'd married the
delightful witch.
Chapter 29
Bird calls and the scent of green growing things sprinkled with dew
woke the weary travelers at dawn. Methos stretched contentedly in his
bed. The ticking had just the right amount of feathers, the pillows
were lumpy exactly where they should be -- covered with linens woven
so fine they felt like silk against his skin -- and smelled of just
the right mix of perfumes to titillate his senses.
God, what a shameless, self-indulgent hedonist you were, Methos
thought bemused. With a sigh of regret for both his former self and
the need to leave this comfortable nest he arose, indulging himself
just a little more after dressing by sneaking down the back stairs to
the stables. He quickly checked the animals then saddled the white
stallion. With his bow and quiver at his back, Methos mounted and rode
out. Back down to the valley below where he let the stallion have his
head for a time, racing with the wind in his hair, the hot scent of
horse in his nostrils and the rising sun warm against his skin.
The morning sun was high when he returned hours later to find O'Neill
in the middle of the stable yard neatly dressed in his uniform as he
stood with arms folded, obviously waiting and annoyed.
"You wanna let someone know when you plan to disappear for a while,"
the colonel told him coldly.
"Takes all the fun out of the sneaking part," Methos confided,
grinning as he cut the ties on the bag of game he had strapped to the
saddle and letting it drop to the ground. "Besides," he added, easily
dismounting. "You can see the entire valley from Zekna's room. You
knew where I was."
"That's not the point, Captain."
"Reestablishing the pecking order are we, Colonel?" Methos smirked as
he picked up the bag, slung it over his shoulder and took the reins.
O'Neill frowned. "There is no pecking order. There's me and then there
are rules for you to follow."
Methos sighed tiredly as he led the way to the stable. He'd had such a
lovely ride and now this! "Yes, I know," he sneered. "The chain of
command."
"Then there's no reason for you not to follow it, is there?"
Methos stopped abruptly and turned to face Jack, his eyes narrowing
dangerously. "This conversation grows tiresome, O'Neill. Much as I
find it amusing, I am not your minion."
"Oh, but you are, Captain Pierson. You became mine the minute you
signed on the dotted line," O'Neill said mildly as he slowly backed
Methos against the horse "I think you've forgotten who you are and
where you come from, Pierson. We aren't your pets -- and this isn't
your home. Like the rest of us, you're just a visitor here. Perhaps
you ought to consider rethinking your position -- Captain." At that he
turned and walked away without looking back.
Methos stared after the man, utterly shocked. Not by the colonel's
words, but that O'Neill had noticed what he hadn't. He was adapting,
Methos realized, appalled by his behavior.
He winced with embarrassment. There'd been no call to treat the man so
rudely. As though he were an inferior sent only to entertain him --
and doing a piss poor job of it at that! He could only imagine what
the colonel must have really thought from what little he'd said, but
the general idea disgusted him.
But why here? Why now? he wondered, distractedly moving toward the
stable. It wasn't like he'd ever been truly happy as a Horseman. He'd
never have left it behind if that were the case. Might have ended up
like Kronos, filled with anger and bitterness. Or Silas, dreaming of
the good old days and how nice it would be to ride the plains again
killing everything in sight. But in those days he hadn't known how to
be anything else. And, god help him, he'd loved it. The power and the
freedom from constraint. But happy? He didn't think so.
That was it, wasn't it? Methos cocked his head, pausing at the stable
doors. The freedom to be who he was now. With these people he suddenly
had something he'd never experienced with the Horsemen. Camaraderie
without fear or coercion. And in this place and time he could have the
power too. With all his knowledge he could find a place and make it
his. It tempted him and Methos knew it. Called to a part of him he'd
thought long since buried. He could have everything he'd never had. He
could live his life -- without want or need or even the anger that had
kept him constantly moving -- until, of course, he ended up right back
where he had started.
He glanced at the house, finally seeing it clearly. Not his home --
not even when he'd rightfully lived here. It was built on a foundation
of blood. The stones carved from stolen lives -- the property of all
those who'd died to make the Horsemen rich. His things had never been
his, but the remains of others. Used goods, bought with their
suffering. And yet, it had called to him as well.
How thin the veneer of civilization, he thought ironically, beginning
to unsaddle the horse. He'd come so far and worked so hard to move
beyond the Horseman, only to find the savage still pacing him just
beneath the surface. But O'Neill had seen it, because it called to him
too. The predator that lurked within, waiting for that moment when the
keeper of the cage forgot to check the lock. And Methos had almost let
him slip the leash.
He spent a long time cleaning the stable then currying the horses,
letting them out into the paddock with Amelia to graze. Then he went
to the slaughter room and dressed the rabbits he'd caught that
morning, putting up the meat in a jar of salted water and spiced wine
to preserve it. He avoided the others, slipping up the back stairs
through the servants passages and into his quarters.
With a sigh he shut the door and stared at the room's contents.
Pathetic, he thought disgustedly, finally confronting the obvious. He
hadn't deserved any of this. Methos sneered at the little toys his
former self had collected which littered the room like so much junk.
Pretty trinkets of faience, ivory, amber and gold. Miniature horses
and statues of gods he couldn't have put a name to when he'd taken
them, though he knew them now. He'd always thought he'd seen himself
for what he was, but maybe he never really had. Which led him to
wonder what the others thought of him.
Teal'c was obvious. The man wouldn't judge him. Couldn't really, if he
even thought about it at all. Like the warrior he was, he would accept
or deny Methos based on his deeds, and thus far he'd done nothing to
warrant rejection by the Jaffa. Not yet, he amended thoughtfully.
Daniel, of course, knew Adam, and those parts of Methos he'd recently
begun to see. But the young man could not possibly comprehend the
scope of what he was, or what he'd been except in the vaguest terms.
And he was likely not to judge him too harshly even if he thought
about the things Methos had done. Telling himself that it was a
different time and a different world, which was the truth, but not the
only truth there was.
He considered Samantha then. Major Carter probably had the most
balanced opinion. She'd taken him as he'd presented himself from the
day he'd walked into the SGC. A brilliant, dangerous, amusing and
occasionally charming scientific puzzle. She would see the modern
Methos, though without immediately disregarding the man he'd been. The
scientist in her would not allow that, though like Teal'c she was
unlikely to judge him for it.
And O'Neill? Of them all, O'Neill was probably the only one who could
see Methos for what he truly was. Had to, because he'd pointed out his
failings so well. He'd seen the temptation which faced the Immortal.
Seen Methos drifting towards it. And with a wisdom far beyond his
years, had ever so gently had slapped him back into the present. More
to the point, O'Neill would have no trouble guessing from whence
everything in this place came. He wouldn't hide from that knowledge.
In truth, Methos knew, if he'd met O'Neill as the man he'd been three
thousand years ago, Jack would have cheerfully killed him without a
moment's hesitation. Taken his head and wandered off to dinner
whistling a happy tune. And rightfully so, Methos admitted sadly. Yet,
O'Neill accepted Methos as he was now. Cared enough to keep him
grounded -- though he must have long since guessed just how difficult
this journey was for the Immortal. And in the end, as long as he
stepped back from the precipice that yawned, all would be forgiven.
Methos shook his head, looking down at his clothes. No, he told
himself firmly. Not his clothes. Not anymore.
He found his uniform and headed for the bath at the end of the hall.
An hour later, freshly shaved, hair trimmed short and dressed in
fatigues Methos presented himself for orders. Not a word was said, not
even a smile, but they both knew just how close to disaster he'd come.
And later that night, Methos happily cleared out of the Horseman's
room and found himself another.
Chapter 30
"God, I'm tired!" Methos sighed, sitting down and collapsing back on
his bed.
O'Neill stuck his head in the door, smiling. "But it's a good kind of
tired. Isn't it, soldier?"
Methos groaned. Jack would have to pick the room next door! Not
satisfied with just ditching his Horseman image, Methos had moved into
the concubines' quarters. They were small, but nice. Homey, without
being ostentatious. Everyone else had seemed to agree -- moving in
right alongside him. Now, he lived in a dormitory.
"But two hundred pounds of lead!" Methos complained. "Where the hell
are we going to get two hundred pounds?! And mercury? That stuff
doesn't grow on trees out here. We can't just pop down to the local
apothecary and put in an order!" Carter was out of her mind, he
thought. They'd traipsed across the entire area for most of the day,
lugging back bushels of rock and baskets of sand for her to examine.
Now, she wanted them to start digging.
Daniel chose just that moment to walk by on his way to the bath down
the hall. "Why can't we go to the local apothecary?"
Methos raised his head to stare for a moment then let it fall back
with a sigh. "Do you really think an apothecary in this day and age
would be in possession of ten pounds of mercury?"
"Maybe not one apothecary," Daniel agreed. "But several together might
have enough. It was used in tinctures and--"
"I know what it's used for," Methos rolled his eyes and sat up on his
elbows. "And yes, we could give it a try," he acknowledged. "Even if
we don't succeed in getting all of it, we can probably get enough to
make a couple of good thermometers. And once we build a proper kiln we
can smelt the stuff out of the rock as we smelt for lead."
"That's the spirit, kids," O'Neill smiled proudly. "See what you can
accomplish when you work together?"
Methos grimaced. He really didn't want to go into town at the moment.
Too many uncomfortable memories there. On the other hand, this might
be his opportunity to get out of the clay and sand hauling project
O'Neill had planned for the morning. It was to be a real kiln this
time, made of fired concrete bricks and mortar. "All right," Methos
sighed tiredly. "With your permission, Colonel, Daniel and I will go
into Zakoros in the morning."
"When we're done with the kiln," O'Neill told him, grinning. "Good
try, though, Pierson. Nice. Polite. Said all the right words with just
the right amount of reluctance. But you're making bricks with the rest
of us and there's no getting out of it."
"I have no idea what you're talking about," Methos told him airily,
though he could see Daniel trying not to laugh.
Was he becoming that transparent?! Methos fell back, staring at the
ceiling in dismay. And when he got back, would the Highlander now see
through his every machination? Good god! Now there was a frightening
concept.
***
The day was too warm for the fall, Daniel thought as unrelieved
shimmering waves of heat beat off the hard packed dirt of the road
ahead. He glanced at the man walking beside him, his old friend,
college buddy, sometimes study partner and now team mate. Methos, the
ten thousand year old Immortal. Who strolled along humming under his
breath. An old tune by The Police, of all things. 'Every little thing
you do is magic...'
Wow, he thought for the thousandth time. Or, big fucking wow as Jack
would say. Daniel looked back at the road, listening to the creak of
the cart and the soft fall of the donkey's hooves plodding behind
them. Now, here he was, off on a shopping expedition three thousand
years in the past with a man who'd lived it
And what an anomaly that man was. So much of Adam in there -- probably
a lot more than Methos would ever admit to. The same dry wit, piercing
intelligence and a quiet, almost humble perspective on life. Someone
who saw the big picture and his own small place within the whole.
Acceptance on a grand scale with a vision to match. But not too grand
to keep him from seeing all the little pictures. The snapshots that
made up the lives of the mortals who surrounded him.
The idea was almost mind boggling, Daniel thought. And if Methos ever
wondered why he'd never sat down with his notebook and tried to plumb
every scrap of knowledge he could from his old friend the answer was
simple. He didn't even know where to start. Still, there was one thing
which had been bothering him. A question he'd been meaning to ask
since he'd first selfishly roped shy, retiring Adam Pierson into the
magnificent nightmare that was the SGC.
"Uh, Adam," he started, swallowing against the dust that clung to his
lips. "I've been meaning to talk to you about something." The Immortal
looked up, seemingly startled out of whatever pleasant reverie he'd
been having. "Are you okay with all of this? Not," he gave a lopsided
grin, shrugging at their surroundings, "just this. But the whole SGC
thing?"
Methos' eyes narrowed in confusion then he smiled wryly and gave a
little half nod, half shrug before he spoke. "I admit I was pretty
pissed at first. At the time my life was..." he sighed ruefully.
"Evenly balanced, I suppose you could say. Just enough danger to keep
me on my toes, a few good friends to hang out with -- the boredom
mostly kept at bay while I just sort of cruised along. Getting dumped
on your ass into the middle of a war zone is always a shocker, but,"
he smiled. "All in all, I guess I'm okay with it. If I weren't, I
would have been long since gone."
Daniel nodded thoughtfully. "Okay. 'Cause I was worried, you know?
Just... Well... Because it's my fault you're in this mess. And I'm
sorry."
"Don't be," Methos told him gently. "We're all in this mess, Danny.
And not just us, but the whole world -- even if they don't know it
yet. You know," he went on, returning admission with admission and
kindness for kindness. "For most of my life I've run from things --
especially involvement in anything that smacked of The Greater Good.
Even when I was involved, it wasn't really me. Just whoever I happened
to be as the moment required it. If David Benjamin was a clerk at a
law office in London working toward the bar and everyone around him
was mobilizing to fight the Hun, he enlisted and became a clerk in the
war office working toward the same goal as they were."
"And now?" Daniel asked quietly.
Methos gave a self-deprecating snort of laughter. "Now, I'm walking
down a road I've walked a thousand times before, except this time it's
me on the journey. Not the Horseman, or the nameless traveler, or even
Adam Pierson playing Methos, ancient Immortal on a mission to thwart
the Goa'uld from destroying his planet. It's just... Me."
"And you have no defense against that," Daniel observed.
"None," Methos whispered softly, looking slightly shocked by the
perceptiveness of Daniel's comment.
"Well, you're not alone," he told him gently. "That's how it is for
most of us. No masks. Just us."
"True," Methos smiled sadly. "But that doesn't make the experience any
less unnerving for us novices."
The road ahead curved around a large stand of trees and on the other
side, laid out below, was the city of Zakoros. Not a village this
time, but a real city. Even now on Crete the standard of living was
fairly high, though on the mainland, rich and poor alike might live in
one or two room houses. Here, at least within the cities, even the
poor often had five or six rooms subdivided by pier and door
partitions and split between two floors. And while Zakoros was not the
largest port on the island, it was still the most strategically
located at the southeastern edge of the island and home to many
traders and merchants interested in goods from Egypt, Africa and
Arabia.
Dirt paths changed to wide cobblestone streets lined with two and
three story buildings painted in bright shades of red, blue or yellow
and every shade in between as they made their way into the city. It
was mid-morning and the shops were open, men and women going about
their business as children ran and played in the streets.
As they reached the merchant quarter Methos nodded toward the west.
"The apothecary shops are just off Divination Street to the left of
Whistling Alley. You can't miss it. There's a big bronze statue of the
Goddess at the corner."
"You're not coming with me?" Daniel asked surprised.
"This was your idea," Methos told him. "Besides, I've got to get some
stuff."
"Like what?"
Methos gave him an assessing stare then suddenly smiled. "Are you
hungry?" he asked abruptly.
Daniel shrugged. "There's food in the pack if--"
"Oh, not for that," Methos interrupted. "See the blue door over
there," he whispered, discreetly pointing to their right. "Behind that
door are the most glorious sausages ever made. And beer. Good enough
to stand a spoon in."
"You know I don't really like beer," Daniel reminded him.
"Yes, and I've always thought less of you for it," Methos commented.
"But failings aside, you're my friend, so I thought I'd invite you
along. Anyway, they do have wine -- for those poor souls among us who
can't stand up to the beer."
"Thanks, but no thanks," Daniel grimaced. "Besides, Jack will kill us
if we come back drunk."
Methos rolled his eyes. "Okay. One beer, or cup of wine," he allowed.
"But as many sausages as we can stomach. And we'll bring back plenty
for the others."
Daniel considered for a moment. "If you forget the beer and get the
sausages to go, I'm in."
"But it comes with!" Methos complained. "It'd be an insult not to have
it."
"Then get it to go, too," Daniel said, annoyed. "Look, you might enjoy
being Jack's minion now, but you'll hate it when he demotes you to
worthless lackey if he finds out you were drinking on duty."
"It's just beer," Methos muttered angrily.
Daniel sighed and shook his head. "Trust me on this, Adam. You don't
know Jack as well as I do. If you don't have any now, but bring it
back for everyone to share later, he'll look the other way when you
want a pint with lunch every day. Break the regs first and he'll ride
you to hell and back for doing it."
Yeah. That sounded about right, Methos thought, frowning in disgust.
O'Neill was quirky that way. In Jack's book, trust was a two way
street. If he trusted the colonel to be fair, he'd be trusted to drink
appropriately later. O'Neill wouldn't feel as if he'd done something
behind his back. Strange how in the last two modern wars he'd served
in the exact opposite had been true. A man was trusted to know when to
drink and that he would do so in moderation. A sort of gentleman's
agreement that was the rule of the day. Now, one had to earn the right
to be trusted.
"Okay, we'll get it all to go, but you're still on your own for the
mercury," he said as Daniel smiled gratefully. "While I," Methos
grimaced. "Will very soberly be buying livestock and poultry. God, I
hate this job!"
***
"What's that?" Methos asked as a pair of slaves loaded several large
amphorae into the back of the wagon.
"A surprise," Daniel grinned, turning back to bow deeply to the
ancient apothecary, who handed him a small glass jar along with a
bundle of wrapped leather. "And enough mercury to get us started."
Methos raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. The old man, who looked to
be of Egyptian descent, seemed happy enough with his customer and
whatever purchases he'd made. He nodded to Methos and went back inside
followed by his slaves.
"Looks like you did okay, too," Daniel commented, noting the cages of
chickens, geese, doves and turtles already in the cart, while behind,
four goats, a ram, three pigs and a milk cow were tied to the back.
"Yeah. And if anybody gives me any lip about the big steak dinner I'm
planning for the night before we leave, there'll be no joy in Mudville
for anyone. At least until we get back and I take Teal'c to dinner at
O'Malley's."
"No lip from me," Daniel grinned as he tucked the smaller purchases
into his pack. "But you might want to rethink O'Malley's. Stetson's
off the parkway serves Black Angus on free beer night."
Methos gave him a sour smile. "Yes, but then you three would show up
and stick me with the check."
"What else are friends for?" Daniel joked as they led the cart toward
the northwest road.
"That's what I said to MacLeod," Methos grinned amiably. "Then I very
kindly explained the ancient tradition of the household leech and what
an honor it was to have me as his."
Daniel laughed. In Greek and Roman times anyone who showed up right
before a meal was always invited to partake with the family. And the
wealthier one was the more friends one had conveniently dropping in
with a bit of news or gossip to ease their way. And it was indeed
considered an honor.
"I'll bet that went over well," he grinned, having met the thrifty
Highlander.
"Like a lead balloon given MacLeod's disdain for anything that came
before Columbus discovered America."
"I never got that," Daniel admitted. "People who don't want to know
anything about history. If you don't know where you've been..."
"How can you possibly know where you're going," Methos finished with a
wry smile as they shared the old joke.
They went on chatting about everything and nothing as they left
Zakoros, reaching the villa a few hours later just as the sun was
beginning to set. O'Neill and the others met them as they came up the
path.
"I thought you were going to get supplies to replace the stuff we'll
be using?" O'Neill asked tersely, staring in dismay at the animals.
"Why bother?" Methos asked with a shrug. "I handled all the household
accounts. I'll just tickle the books a bit before we go and I'll never
know I was here."
"That makes some kind of sense," O'Neill's brow creased with
confusion. "Just don't ask me what."
Methos grinned as they joined the others in unloading the supplies.
Carter was pleased with the amount of mercury Daniel had purchased as
well as the few medicinal herbs he'd managed to find.
"So, what's in the jars?" she asked as O'Neill swung the first one
down and handed it off to Teal'c.
"Just some coffee beans," Daniel said casually. "I sort of ran into
the local Juan Valdez."
The others went stock still as he rambled on.
"You know, coffee originally came from Arabia," he went on, ignoring
their expressions. "Neftu, the apothecary, he says his father bought a
cart load from some Phoenician traders who kept it for ballast. His
dad used it to make poultices and he still uses it in most of his
medicinal teas. I guess as a source of caffeine -- which does have
some well known therapeutic qualities, but--"
"Coffee!" O'Neill finally blurted, not having heard another word
Daniel had said after the magic one. "You got us COFFEE!"
"That's what the man said," Methos whispered. "And I went and bought a
bloody milk cow. We can actually have cream in our coffee."
"And butter," Carter sighed. "With real homemade bread."
"Teal'c," Jack ordered. "You handle that funny looking jug with care."
"Yes, Colonel O'Neill. I too have developed a certain fondness for
this particular beverage."
Methos suddenly frowned. "Makes what I got seem small by comparison."
The others looked to him with questioning glances. "Just the world's
best sausages and beer. I also stopped by my favorite sweet shop. They
make the most marvelous little pastries."
"Beer and sausages for dinner, followed by coffee and cake." O'Neill
sighed expansively, putting an arm around each man's shoulders.
"Sometimes, campers, it's good to be alive!"
"Even if it's in the wrong century?" Daniel asked, grinning widely.
"Well," O'Neill responded as he released them and gently lifted out
another coffee filled amphorae. "As my old man used to say.
'Sometimes, son, y' can't have everything -- but it sure as hell beats
havin' squat!'"
Chapter 31
Methos woke at the rooster's crow, sighing as he roused himself from
his bed. O'Neill might have given everyone a day off because the
foundation and bricks for the kiln were still drying, but they all
still had their daily duties. In addition to being supply officer, he
was nominally in charge of caring for the horses and donkey, though
the others always volunteered to help. Now though, since he'd gone and
made this place a working farm, he assumed they would have their own
animals to take care of. And he was right.
Methos smiled briefly as he came down the stairs and found coffee
already brewing in the kitchen -- along with O'Neill divvying up the
chores as he prepared the duty roster which generally hung on his
door.
"You've lived on a farm before," Methos commented as he poured himself
a cup, taking the opportunity to peer over the colonel's shoulder.
Jack nodded absently, accepting a refill. "Spent a couple of summers
with my insane Uncle Frank and his wacky cousin, Chuck."
"Why insane?" Methos asked curiously, leaning against the large stone
worktable where O'Neill sat.
"Uncle Frank was an honest to god loony with the papers to prove it.
Got a Section 8 out of 'Nam in '67. Escaped the bin to go to
Woodstock. Then, for reasons known only to him, bought a farm in
Upstate New York and started raising poultry. We called it the Chicken
Hilton 'cause the hen house was heated but the main house wasn't."
"That makes him cheap, not crazy," Methos offered.
"Using the outhouse at night was a real trip," Jack went on. "He and
Chuck would lay in wait and shout 'Incoming!' before firing buckshot
at me and the cousins. Believe me," he grinned. "We learned how to
duck and roll real fast."
"That makes him crazy," Methos finally nodded.
"Nah!" O'Neill shook his head, stretching languorously in his chair.
"He just wanted to prepare us for the war ahead -- because in his mind
there was always going to be one. What made him crazy was his choice
of decor. Every time one of the animals died he'd cut off its head and
nail it to a tree as a keepsake of the dear departed."
"A deeply disturbed man," Methos murmured, sipping his coffee.
"Yeah," O'Neill agreed. "But he's still my favorite uncle. Frank never
lied, never bullshitted anyone, and never made any excuses for what he
was. He knew he was crazy and he liked himself just fine."
"And you call me warped," Methos twisted his lips in a wry smile.
"True. But I like y' just fine."
Methos chuckled. Jack's uncle might be a lunatic, but he also sounded
like a fairly straightforward guy. At the very least, he'd passed that
on to his nephew. "Someday I'd like to meet your Uncle Frank."
"Sure," O'Neill nodded. "If you can make it past the dogs without
losing any body parts he'll talk to you. Otherwise, you'll be picking
buckshot out of your torn up behind."
They were both laughing when the others joined them, though neither
would reveal what the joke was. O'Neill handed off the duty roster and
everyone had a look with their coffee. Chores would be done in
rotation with no one stuck doing anything they detested for very long.
It was a fair system and with some brief instruction from O'Neill,
Carter and Teal'c went off to take care of the poultry, while Daniel
had the stables and Methos went with Jack to the barn.
By the time the sun was fully up everything that needed doing was done
and Methos went back to his room to change and retrieve his sword. He
went down to the practice hall where there was plenty of space and a
good gypsum floor. For the past several months, except during the sea
voyage, he'd been pretty faithful in doing an abbreviated version of
his kata every day. It took only forty-five minutes as compared to
three or four hours, but he still felt as though he'd been slacking
off.
"What brought this on?" O'Neill asked when Methos finally finished the
last movement and went to get some water. He and Teal'c had shown up
for their own workout about half way through then sparred for a while
with the practice swords. Methos hadn't been the least bit surprised
that O'Neill really did know how to use a sword. Given some of the
areas of the world in which he'd probably done covert ops, it was a
good skill to have. He looked around for Teal'c before responding,
assuming when he didn't see the big Jaffa that he'd gone off to do his
meditation, or maybe find another wooden conversational partner.
"Seemed like a good idea," Methos told him. "I felt another Immortal
brush past me in Zakoros. Kind of reminded me we were moving back into
civilized territory."
"He didn't challenge you, did he?" O'Neill asked worriedly.
Methos shook his head and hefted his sword. "Probably a young one
still wet behind the ears. Felt me and ran, I suppose. Smart teachers
tell their students to wait a century or more before accepting a
challenge. If they can avoid it, that is. Gives them a better
emotional balance when they understand what it truly means to be
Immortal. And the young are easy targets," he added. He should know,
he thought sadly. He'd taken enough immature Quickenings as a Horseman
to have become disgusted with the concept early on. "But as we move
into the cities," Methos went on. "There will very likely be more
seasoned Immortals wanting to fight. I'd rather not if I have a
choice, but it's best to be prepared."
"Then you've got a choice," O'Neill told him. "From now on one of us
will go with you whenever you go into town."
"You can't interfere in the Game," Methos responded tersely.
"No, but we can give you a choice. If you don't feel like playing one
of us can shoot him and you can walk away. No harm, no foul. Besides,
you aren't supposed to be here with your game face on anyway."
"I hadn't thought of that," Methos admitted. "And since that really is
the case you won't need to accompany me. I've no problem with cheating
the rules on occasion. And I can shoot just as well as any of you
can."
"Oooh. A challenge."
Methos only smiled, resting his sword against his shoulder. "Got
anything left for me, old man?" he asked, moving back out onto the
floor.
O'Neill nodded slowly and picked up his sword. "I think I can still
manage a few rounds -- Grandpa."
Chapter 32
Gray clouds hovered over the island while rain drummed on rooftops and
cobblestone streets, running in endless channels down the hillsides to
pool in muddy rivers and fill ravines. It thrummed incessantly. At
first, pleasantly distracting then annoyingly so, until at last it
simply became a constant state of being -- damp and chilly, or wet and
miserable. It didn't matter which to the members of SG-1, they were
sick of it and going stir crazy.
It pattered on the slate roof above the warm, dry kitchen where most
of the team took refuge when they weren't busy in one of the workrooms
that lined the west wing of the mansion. There was a potter's shop, a
weaving room, a cutting and dying room for leather, cloth and other
items, even rooms for wood working and stone cutting. All the things
any large home, Minoan or otherwise required to be self-sufficient.
After four months on Kronos' little mountain top, they'd mined and
dug, hauled and shoveled, then carried and smelted enough rock to
extract all the minerals they needed. In addition, the finest, most
tightly woven linen in villa's stores had been cut to size for each
member of the team and painted with a mixture of lead, mercury and
charcoal. Quilted together with the thin Mylar emergency blankets
they'd carried in their packs and in the med kit, Methos and Carter
had created the radiation suits they'd require. They were hot, stiff
and uncomfortable, but they were what they had.
That done, their current project was to create a containment unit for
whatever they found inside the Ark. They'd kicked the idea around for
several days before finally deciding that a blanket of lead, foldable
and easily carried even at seventy pounds, was probably the best
solution to the problem. Not knowing what size the object would be had
been an important concern. Therefore, they needed to prepare for any
eventuality. Which meant having the ability to wrap the contents -- of
whatever size or shape it turned out to be -- enough times to create a
proper seal in the precise thickness required.
Methos rubbed tired eyes as he stared at the numbers again, trying to
make sense out of the fact that his formulae to synthesize appropriate
anti-radiation medications were simply not adding up. He had all the
materials he needed -- had in fact distilled and mixed the correct
chemicals in the correct amounts according to the breakdown of
components in the related drugs he'd found in the med kit. Still,
something was missing. The delicate balance between what constituted a
poison to the body -- and truthfully, all medication was essentially
poison if administered incorrectly -- and what promoted healing. At
this rate, he thought, tossing down his pen in disgust, he was never
going to finish in time!
He picked up the vial of Rituxan, just one of several drugs he'd been
working with, some of which he hadn't even known existed and that he
suspected were probably classified. He tried not to think about what
they might have meant for Alexa, dying painfully and slowly in that
hospital in Switzerland where he'd taken her in a last ditch effort to
prevent her death. Then again, the military didn't need government
approval to try new medications. From his experience, they went by a
different policy. Cure it now and worry about the side effects later.
The Rituxan, though still experimental for the general public, wasn't
exactly new. A monoclonal antibody without a radioisotope which worked
by targeting cancer cells before they could grow by delivering small
doses of radiation directly to the cancer. And like all the anti-
radiation drugs in the kit its purpose was to prevent the immediate
and widespread rapid growth of cancers and lymphomas which sudden
exposure to large doses of radiation caused, and which were among the
primary causes of death associated with radiation sickness. Still,
whatever was in these vials, including the Rituxan, was definitely
cutting edge stuff.
Maybe it's in the synthesizing process, he thought tiredly, getting up
to go find Carter. The last time he'd seen her she was with O'Neill,
who was taking his turn at playing blacksmith and hammering out the
lead ingots they needed to make into sheets to build the containment
blanket.
He found her in the hall talking quietly with Teal'c and waited a
discreet distance away. A moment later, she paused in her conversation
just long enough to look his way.
"A quick question, Major," Methos said, holding up the vial of
Rituxan. "Do you know where these drugs were manufactured?"
"The space shuttle or Mir," she answered succinctly, turning back to
Teal'c as Methos quickly blanked his expression.
No wonder, he thought, sitting heavily as he found a seat on a bench
in another corridor. With a slow shake of his head he stared at the
vial in his hands. He might have guessed, he thought ruefully. Plants
grown in a weightless, hydroponics environment had properties unlike
any others. No parasitic impurities from the soil and no loss of key
nutrients expended in the struggle to rise above the planet's gravity.
This in turn created greater concentrations of whatever chemicals
might be extracted from the plants -- and in purer forms than could
ever occur in nature, because they were essentially mutations of the
plants themselves. Meaning, he realized with a sickening twist in his
gut, that the very process used to manufacture the drugs made them
impossible to duplicate without the exact same facilities.
Methos' hand tightened around the vial. Gods above and below, he
wasn't going to have enough! Not to treat everybody at once. And that
was the plan. For everyone to go in together, retrieve the Ark, bury
the package and get through the Stargate fast enough to be treated
properly at the SGC.
Of course, he thought, quickly calming himself, the others did have
their anti-toxin kits which contained pre-measured single doses of
everything from the antidote for Anthrax to morphine. Carter had told
him as much when she'd handed over the drugs in the kit for him to
work with. If that was the case, maybe it wasn't as hopeless as he
imagined. It all depended on just how much exposure they'd be risking
even with the suits.
Methos stood and headed for the empty workroom Carter had claimed for
her office. He needed to look at her original figures from the Egypt
site.
Not surprisingly, Methos knew a little something about radiation.
After the Americans had dropped the first atomic bomb, he'd made it
his business to know. An Immortal standing at ground zero had no
better chance of surviving the unleashed power of the sun than any
mortal. And who knew what could affect Immortal physiology, since even
they didn't know what made them so. Over the years, given the advances
in both medicine and weaponry, he'd kept up with his studies.
Especially when it had come up as a treatment option for Alexa.
He found Carter's laptop open on the table and booted it up. He knew
she wouldn't mind his using it. After all, she'd given him the
password so he could work on synthesizing the drugs. And of course,
any classified material he wasn't supposed to see were locked and
encrypted in separate files. But her findings on the radioactivity at
the site weren't off limits.
He found the file easily, quickly skimming through the document until
he found what he wanted. Then sat staring numbly at the screen as he
added it all up.
According to her report, normal background radiation was approximately
1 to 2 millisieverts, or mSv, per year, while 5 mSv in a sudden single
exposure was a definite cancer risk -- and 20 mSv annually was
considered acceptable for radiation workers -- though he'd read
evidence from Nagasaki and Hiroshima to suggest that one could survive
a sudden exposure of 200 mSv with cancers and other treatable health
problems. The estimated leakage from the false Ark before opening,
Carter had surmised, was approximately 500 mSv. Adding that 5,000 mSv
was a probable figure for the true Ark given the amount of damage it
had caused to the Horsemen -- a dose which had been almost instantly
lethal on opening.
And the fake? Methos shook his head, closing his eyes to the horror on
the screen. From the isotopes found in the desert Carter had
extrapolated a sudden exposure to 20,000 mSv. A figure not survivable
by any means. At least not in the primitive gear they'd be wearing.
Even with pre-treatment the others might last only long enough to get
the Ark out and buried. There'd be no chance whatsoever that they'd
make it to the ship. And Carter had to know that.
Methos hurriedly erased any evidence of his presence on the computer,
shutting it down and leaving just as quickly.
Good god! he thought angrily as he made his way to his quarters. What
kind of game was the woman playing?! Did Jack know about this?
Methos stopped in his tracks in the hall outside his room. "He has to
know," he whispered softly. O'Neill commanded troops in a nuclear age
army. Whether air, sea or ground forces, it wouldn't matter. A working
knowledge of what posed an acceptable risk to personnel and what
constituted a lethal exposure would be required reading. For all that
he pretended to be less than sharp when it came to cracking the books,
O'Neill was no one's fool. And if that was so, then what was going on?
He glanced at the door to O'Neill's room, knowing there was only one
way to find out for sure. Without hesitation, Methos slipped inside
the colonel's room going right to the shelf where he'd seen what he
needed before. O'Neill's mission diary. The notes he made on every
foray through the Stargate to be later used in his reports. He went to
the window where the light was better and started reading, his heart
sinking deeper with every word.
Not only did O'Neill know this was a suicide mission, but Carter and
Teal'c knew as well. Of course, the Jaffa would have guessed, Methos
realized sickly. He would have seen the evidence of his fate in the
dead Jaffa bodies aboard the ship. If they hadn't survived, he
wouldn't either. And he'd been the one to come up with this insane
plan in the first place. Together, they were shielding he and Daniel.
Well, Daniel he could understand, Methos thought sadly. The boy didn't
need to know the truth. That would be too cruel. Giving him the
knowledge that they would succeed in saving the world, but die
painfully and horribly in the process wasn't something you told a non-
combatant volunteer. But him?! Methos wondered with a sense of shock.
Why shield the Immortal? The radiation wasn't going to kill him!
Morale, Methos realized as he read further. This whole elaborate plan
had been hatched not simply to protect Daniel, but to keep Methos from
feeling badly when they all died.
"Shit!" he muttered, sliding down against the wall to sit on the
floor. O'Neill was worried he'd feel guilty because of their
sacrifice. The colonel's reasoning was plain, even between the lines.
He would never have asked Methos to go in alone to remove the Ark. Not
when it meant the very definite possibility that he wouldn't make it
back to the gate. And as much as they'd planned for stealth, the
reality was they'd likely have to fight their way through. That had
been the reason for everyone sticking together in the first place.
They couldn't take the chance that anyone would be left behind.
Especially him, Methos thought as he read the last entry in the diary,
his chest going tight with emotion. It was a letter from O'Neill. A
letter addressed to him. A letter he knew Methos would eventually
find.
"My friend," it started.
"I know this is hard. We didn't want to leave you like this -- alone
and out of place in this time. But I figured that somehow this was
going to happen no matter what. Don't kid yourself, Pierson, we knew
the choices. Go out as a team or sit back, live comfortably and wait
to die -- hoping like hell you managed to make it another 3,000 years
to pull our collective asses out of the fire. Not fair! That wasn't
what you signed on for. Then there was that other choice. The one I
nipped in the bud before you even thought about making the offer. No
way was I sending you in alone. You'd be totally defenseless! Dead,
half dead, or too sick to protect yourself without back up -- and all
these guys have swords! Besides, I had my orders..."
Orders? Methos thought, confused. What orders?
"...you're not allowed to die."
Oh, Methos thought, chagrined. Those orders.
"Be that as it may," O'Neill went on. "I figured this was the best
solution. We didn't belong here anyway and the longer we stayed the
greater the risk we'd change history and screw it all up. So don't
kick yourself for not figuring it out in time. I know you're a smart
guy. Way smarter than me, especially when it comes to the science
stuff! But I think you kind of liked us, so I know this has got to
hurt. And I suppose once you realized what we'd done you gave us the
coup de grace. There had to be more than enough morphine in the kit to
make it easy on us. So, thanks for that!"
Methos inhaled deeply and briefly shut his eyes. God, how much courage
had this taken to write? Thank you for helping us die? And yes, he
admitted silently. That's exactly what he'd have done given just that
happenstance. He looked back at the page, swallowing hard.
"And on the subject of the med kit, Pierson. If you're still hanging
around the area feeling sorry for yourself, I want you to use the
drugs Carter gave you to keep yourself fit and get the hell out. I
mean it! You're still our one chance at immortality, selfish as that
sounds. In any case, right now you have a choice. In 3,000 years you
can try and stop us from going to the ship and change the outcome --
or not. Without the radiation factor we'll just fly her out. We'll
live, your counterpart will live and so will you. And I don't think
it's such a bad thing having two of you around.
"So, I guess that's it, except for my final orders. I had Daniel make
up a list of places you can hide. Just in case, I told him, because he
didn't know about all this. I couldn't do that to him. I was supposed
to protect him, damn it! That was my job! And yeah, I know, you've
lived here before -- but not like you are now. Which sort of makes it
a To Do list. Or maybe a Not To Do list! They're mostly locations on
holy ground that won't get overrun during the next three thousand
years. Gives you pretty good odds, even if you'll probably be bored
out of your mind! And you've got money now. If you've found this book
then you've checked the packs and found the stones Carter and I set
aside for you. Which makes my orders simple: Take your own good
advice. Live. Grow stronger. Fight another day!"
It was signed, "Warmest regards, Col. J. O'Neill, USAF."
Unable to breathe, Methos glanced at the post script. "Be a good
minion and remember Mr. Tums. He's in my pack with all the other
friends I introduced you to. Take care. GS."
Laughing softly Methos wiped at his eyes, ignoring the list and
putting the diary back exactly where he'd found it. He checked the
corridor and slipped out, going down the back stairs to the stables.
Passing the kitchen he caught sight of Daniel and called out that he
was going for a ride.
"In the rain?!" the archaeologist shouted, but Methos pretended not to
hear as he hurried past.
He couldn't recall having ever read a more painful letter, he realized
as he saddled one of the mares. We love you, remember us, live for us,
goodbye. Oh god! he thought, resting his forehead against the saddle
as grief and guilt nearly overwhelmed his heart. What had he ever done
to deserve all that?
With an effort of will he stilled his emotions just long enough to
swing onto the saddle and ride out. His tears flowed in silence like
the rain, washing his cheeks with dripping warmth. And it was not
enough to say he hurt, but that he ached with such profound sorrow the
agony was indescribable. They were here and then they were gone.
That's how it was with mortals. It was like Alexa all over again, but
worse.
She'd known she was dying. Helpless in the face of an unrelenting
illness she'd never imagined having to face. He'd stood by her,
watching her live for those precious months they'd shared. And oh, how
she'd lived, just for the sake of saying she was alive.
But this? he thought, feeling sick to his stomach. O'Neill was living
to die. Inexorably working toward that goal just as surely as the
cancer had worked it's way through Alexa. Teal'c and Carter as well.
All doing their best to make sure he and Daniel didn't suffer, while
they'd lived since the beginning with this charade. Never in all his
days had he met such courage. And Immortals thought they were tough!
"This is so not happening!" Methos muttered as he pulled the mare up
short. They were not going to die like that. Not if he had anything to
say about it! And certainly not in the joyless pursuit of death.
O'Neill was right. He had a choice. In fact, he had all the choices
Time had to offer.
But how to stop it? he wondered. Simply speaking with O'Neill wouldn't
do it. The only thing that could come of that would be the other man's
sense of failure. He'd feel sad that Methos knew the truth, having
wanted to spare him. But it wouldn't make a difference in what he
truly believed he had to do. And then of course, he'd watch Methos
like a hawk to make sure he couldn't interfere.
No, Methos sighed, steeling his heart to the task ahead. He'd have to
be far subtler than that. He couldn't possibly let on that he knew.
And he couldn't let anyone sense something wrong. He'd have to pretend
he'd never seen those numbers, never read that letter -- and in the
meantime, he would have to plot.
Chapter 33
The children were playing in the courtyard and Methos was enjoying the
sight. All right, he admitted, not just the sight, but the game as
well. After all, he'd thought this one up. All part of his master plan
to distract and disarm his clever opponents. Four could play at that
game, he thought slyly.
Of course, they still had all their little projects -- make work
essentially. In the two months which had passed since he'd discovered
O'Neill's secret they'd completed the blanket while he'd prepared a
host of anti-nausea drugs and pain medications. The drugs were more of
a ruse than a precaution, since he had no intention of letting the
others get anywhere near the site before they had to leave. And leave
they would, he thought, applauding as Carter finished the obstacle
course in record time.
"If the Horsemen could see this place now," Daniel commented, looking
around the ornate front courtyard as he hopped down from the
lightweight wicker chariot he'd been driving to pet the goat which had
carried him to a second place finish.
"They'd have enjoyed it," Methos grinned. "We were simple fellows
really. Easily amused. Especially Silas. He could watch jugglers for
hours and never get bored. Kronos liked sporting events. While Caspian
adored puppet shows. Add in books and music and that was pretty much
all we had -- other than sex and violence. Which gets to be really
boring if that's all you do all the time."
"Okay, campers," O'Neill said as he unhitched his goat from its
chariot. "Playtime's over. Let's get this place cleared and get back
to work."
No one complained. The few hours of fun had alleviated the tension and
stress which had sprung up in their unconventional household over the
past two weeks. The grunt work done, they'd moved on to studying
Teal'c's model of the Goa'uld ship and outlining a plan to infiltrate
the ship's systems.
Of course, the plan was nearly flawless. O'Neill, Carter and Teal'c
had taken great pains to make it realistic. It was the one glaring
error which Methos caught -- but didn't mention -- that would have
rung alarm bells even if he hadn't uncovered their counterfeit
planning. At no point had O'Neill or Carter even suggested building in
time for radiation decontamination. And the suits would be hot. Nearly
as radioactive as whatever material they'd be burying. Stepping out of
them without proper cleansing of their gear and themselves would be
just as suicidal as not wearing them. But Methos said nothing. Merely
drilled along with the others until he was certain that they knew the
plan inside and out -- even if they didn't believe they'd ever make
use of it.
After dinner that night they finally talked about Egypt. What they
might find, how long it would take to get there and how they would
live once they arrived. After more than a year on the road, no one was
really looking forward to the next phase of their journey. Not even
Daniel, who'd spent many days in Zakoros talking to his friend Neftu,
the apothecary, who'd promised to arrange transportation for them to
Sais with the son of a trader he knew well. The man always went in the
spring, Daniel had been told. Arriving at the northernmost Egyptian
port city at the beginning of June, just as the Nile began to rise in
her yearly flood.
"So, when do we leave?" Carter asked.
"If all goes according to plan," Methos responded. "Another month."
"That puts us well into May," O'Neill remarked in disgust. "Eighteen
months to go eight hundred miles. I'll never complain about commercial
transportation again."
Methos grinned. "Won't help. I still bitch and moan about flight
delays and cancellations. And all things considered," he added. "We've
moved pretty quickly for the times. Normally, a journey like this
would have taken three, maybe four years."
O'Neill grimaced. "Remind me to pay a visit to Kitty Hawk and bow down
before the graven images of Wilbur and Orville Wright."
"And how long will it take to get to the site once we reach Egypt?"
Daniel wanted to know.
Methos shrugged. "Two or three weeks on the river down to Athribis,
then another hundred or so miles. A month. More if we run into trouble
and have to detour."
"What kind of trouble?" Carter asked.
"By the time we get there, news of Shishak's illness will have gotten
around. The Nile Delta's his home turf, so I don't expect any real
unrest. But there's certain to be troops headed for Thebes in
anticipation of problems. There's always someone wanting to take
advantage of a perceived weakness. Strangers are likely to be
questioned at the ports and doubtless won't be welcome in much of the
country."
"Suits me fine," O'Neill muttered. "We're not here to make friends and
influence people."
Despite Daniel's look of disappointment Methos had to agree. "Have you
managed to pin down a date yet for the arrival of the Goa'uld ship?"
he asked Carter.
She shook her head. "The radiation made it nearly impossible to get
accurate readings. But I'd guess within three to six months. We should
make it there well within the time frame."
If that was the best they could do, then so be it, Methos thought. As
long as O'Neill's intelligence maps were correct, and the underground
caves they had markings for were still there, they'd have safe
drinking water -- no matter how long they had to wait. And he could
always hunt for game. Antelope and gazelle abounded in that area,
though they'd need to be checked for radiation.
"Well," O'Neill yawned which set everyone but Teal'c to doing the
same. "I'm off to bed," the colonel told them as he stood up.
"Remember, tomorrow morning we start drilling in the suits. G' night,
campers."
Methos stared thoughtfully after the others as they left the kitchen.
"Don't worry, Adam," Daniel paused at the door. "If Sam says it's safe
and Jack thinks we can make it, then we can. It'll be all right."
Methos gave him a kindly smile. "Yes, I'm sure it will be."
***
The winter rains had ended weeks ago. The sun, an occasional visitor
until then, now seemed a perpetual resident. bathing the lush island
in tropical warmth. In centuries to come, Methos knew, millennia
actually, much of Crete's beauty, like so much of the world, would be
destroyed by deforestation. He sighed, staring out at the sweet green
land and the rich blue of the sea beyond. Which meant that even if SG-
1 didn't succeed in making it back through the Stargate, they would
still have this. Either way, they would live. For he had no doubt that
O'Neill would be able to overcome any Goa'uld opposition. As for
himself, he suspected it would not be easy, but honor demanded he try.
Honor, he thought with a smirk as he packed the last of his gear. How
MacLeod would have laughed if he'd heard the selfish, self-serving
Methos speaking of such things. Of course, the Highlander would never
understand. Chivalric honor had nothing to do with the real thing.
True honor was the pursuit of Justice in the name of Family or
Friendship. Not for piddling slights or perceived insults, but to
protect and defend against danger or instability. In ancient days, an
insult to one's mother or sister might result in a loss of social
status creating a loss of economic stability threatening the whole
family and must therefore be answered accordingly. The same was true
with friendship. Failure to aid and protect those who freely offered
such a gift would likely result in the gift never being offered again
-- by anybody. Once a man ignored the honest needs of a friend he was
surely headed down the path of life completely friendless.
To his mind, MacLeod seemed to think friendship meant wheedling favors
for foolish endeavors, like saving other people's marriages. But honor
wasn't about correcting the vagaries and happenstance of life, it was
about survival. Living with one's self day in and day out -- by making
sure those around you who cared enough to take the time to offer you a
place in their lives without asking anything in return except a place
in yours remained safe from real harm. No, MacLeod would never
understand the choices he made. Especially not the one he was making
now.
Methos closed his pack and placed it by the door. Tonight would be his
final one here. In the morning they would be gone and his past at last
defeated.
Definitely calls for a steak dinner, he thought, smiling. And beer.
Now if only he could get past the police cordon around the cow O'Neill
and Carter had been threatening.
Part Four
Chapter 34
Limbs brown as nuts, hair dark as coal, the members of SG-1 blended
easily into the crowd on the quay at Sais. Unlike their last voyage
this one had been relatively smooth. The big trading ship, seventy
feet long and designed to carry passengers as well as cargo of all
kinds, made the three hundred mile trip to the mouth of the Delta in
only a week. Good winds and fresh oarsmen eager to make port made the
journey swift. And unlike their Greek counterparts, the Minoans had no
fear of open water, or night sailing. Their only delay had been
waiting three days for the Nile to rise sufficiently to allow them
passage past the great sand bars that blocked the bigger ships from
entering the channel. They'd spent most of that time relaxing. O'Neill
napped, Teal'c carved, Daniel talked to everybody and Methos braided
Samantha's hair, so that at first glance she looked typically
Egyptian.
As they disembarked Teal'c led the way to the customs official,
declaring himself the head of his household. The officer, a mid-level
scribe working for the government barely glanced up from his papyrus
as he asked a few questions. Why were they here, where were they going
and did they plan to remain. To each inquiry Teal'c responded simply.
They were in Egypt to visit his elderly parents in Athribis and did
not plan to stay longer than a year.
The official nodded, writing it all down. He asked for a list of goods
they wished to declare and Teal'c handed it over. Three horses, one
donkey, a cart and some foodstuffs for personal use. Again the man
wrote in his scroll then reached into the basket beside him taking out
a small wooden plaque. He scratched their names on it, listing their
destination and a description of their property, then scratched his
own name at the bottom. He named a fee, rather high given that they
had so little to declare, but Teal'c paid it stoically and the scribe
handed over the pass.
"That was easy," O'Neill said to Methos, who led the donkey and cart
as Teal'c, Carter and Daniel took charge of the horses.
The Immortal grimaced. "Son of a bitch robbed us."
"How's that?"
"I guess he figured the horses were really meant for breeding so he
taxed us at the higher rate. Put it down in his book as 'nags for
personal usage' and pocketed the rest."
"It's only money," O'Neill responded, amused.
"Sure," Methos nodded. "It's only money now, but just wait until we
get to the inn. They're all sponsored by the local temples and run by
the priests. We'll have to pay the god's portion, plus the cost of
living, stable space, feed and whatever else they decided to tack on
because we're not from around here."
"Relax," O'Neill told him quietly. "As long as we get where we're
going who cares if we're broke when we get there?"
Methos gave him a slight smile, but said nothing. He understood what
O'Neill meant. The dead didn't need money and as long as they were
here, Jack figured they should live well and without worry. And in a
way, if Methos hadn't discovered their plans, it would have comforted
him to know they'd had some pleasure, however brief, after their long
and arduous journey.
He looked around, seeing they were clear of the crowded dockside and
pulled the cart to, then helped Carter into the buckboard. It wouldn't
do to have women or senior members of the family walking. Not when
there was a comfortable place to ride. The Egyptians, a family
oriented people, would consider it disrespectful.
"You'd better get in, too," he told O'Neill, who raised an eyebrow and
shrugged, climbing up and sitting opposite Carter on their gear.
"Daniel?" Methos called, glancing around until he found the
archaeologist several yards away staring wide eyed at a pair of
stelae. The tall flat obelisks, erected to either side of the road
leading to the city above listed the laws and customs of Sais. A
clever way to make sure visitors had no excuse for disobedience. The
Egyptians were highly literate and expected even distant travelers to
be the same, or to at least inquire into the local rules and
regulations, of which there were many.
Methos heaved an internal sigh, though he couldn't find it in his
heart to chastise the boy.
"There's more," Methos said quietly as he came up beside him.
Daniel shook his head and gave him a wistful smile. "It's like a dream
within a nightmare. I know I should wake up, but I'm not sure I really
want to."
"Then sleep a little longer and ride in the cart," Methos told him
gently. "I don't want you getting lost in the crowd."
Daniel nodded and followed him back, obviously seeing the wisdom in
that. Besides, from that vantage point he could see everything, take
notes and even sneak his camcorder out.
Suddenly, there was a ruckus in the crowd further down the quay, then,
"You! Moabite!"
Methos heard the shouted epithet almost before he felt the presence of
another Immortal. Startled, he looked nervously around the square as
the crowd parted to let a personage of some importance and his
entourage ride easily into the square. He felt his jaw dropping as he
recognized the familiar face, nervously stepping back a pace and
coming up hard against the cart.
"What's happening?" he distantly heard O'Neill demanding while Daniel
whispered a hurried response. "So what's a Moabite?"
Methos didn't need to hear the answer to that one. He knew the word as
well as anyone in this age -- though no one but this man had ever
dared use that awful slur. One of the worst the ancient world had to
offer. Baby killer -- for the Moabites believed in child sacrifice to
satisfy their bloodthirsty god.
The Immortal rode closer until he towered over Methos, who sensed the
others reaching for weapons hidden within their voluminous robes.
"Ramesses," he greeted the other man quietly, receiving nothing but a
grimace of distaste in response.
The Egyptian quickly examined Methos' companions, noting their foreign
clothes and easily identifying Jack as the man in charge.
"I know this man," he said in perfect Greek, directing his words to
O'Neill. "Come, friend. Leave him to me and I will find you a better
guide. This one is trash."
O'Neill smiled coldly. "Yeah, but he's our trash, and we love him."
Methos felt his heart swell as Carter reached a hand out and laid it
on his shoulder while Teal'c stepped to his side. Ramesses' eyes
widened and his brows rose in consternation. He looked first at
O'Neill, then at Carter, Teal'c and Daniel, clearly noting that each
of them seemed ready to do battle. He nodded slowly, taking it all in
as the warrior he was then looked at Methos, this time giving him
serious study.
Their gazes met and Methos could not help but remember better times.
The laughter of shared meals, pleasant conversation and their final
parting as friends after such a rocky start.
"You have his face," Ramesses said thoughtfully. "But not his eyes.
And yet, still I see him in there. I have heard of such things," he
went on. "Tell me, were you suddenly touched by the light?"
"Not quite," Methos heard himself responding. "But I assure you,
though you have no cause to trust my word, that on my honor, such as
it is, no harm will come to these people. Not by my hand, or any
other."
"Curious words from your lips, Moabite," Ramesses grinned dangerously,
leaning down in his saddle until they were eye to eye. "And I will
hold you to them. If any harm should come to these good folk, I will
have your head and mount it with my other trophies."
"And so you should," Methos agreed. "If any harm should indeed befall
them."
Ramesses leaned back in surprise, shaking his head. "Perhaps there is
hope for you yet," he sighed.
"And perhaps you'll remember that when next we meet."
Ramesses nodded, reining his horse away. "Perhaps."
Methos watched as the Egyptian rode slowly down the street. He bit his
lip, wanting to shout a warning to his old friend even though he knew
the rules. Damn them! he suddenly thought and to hell with
consequences. He wanted this and he would have it! Without a word he
raced after Ramesses, grabbing the reins of the other man's horse as
it tried to rear and speaking quickly as the Egyptian raised his whip
to strike.
"Beware the Kurgan who comes for the Highlander, Ramirez! There is no
honor in a senseless death."
"What foolishness is this?!" Ramesses shouted, though his tone sound
curious. "Become a soothsayer, have you, Moabite?"
Methos only smiled. "Call me what you wish, old friend, but heed my
warning. And one day, if you live, perhaps I will tell you the story."
His words gave Ramesses pause, and the Egyptian nodded warily.
"You call me friend and that I am not -- yet you seem to mean it. You
offer me augury of danger to come -- yet will not say how you know
this thing. But if I heed this advice, this caution to survive, I will
know all?"
Methos nodded, hoping against hope that he had succeeded. He hurriedly
knelt in the sand, writing out numbers that he knew meant nothing to
Ramesses. "On this date," he pointed to the ground as he rose. "I will
meet you at a tavern called Bellinni's in a city called Colorado
Springs. But with one condition." Ramesses stared at the sand until
Methos knew he'd memorized the symbols then nodded. "You must never
speak of this meeting to me, or to anyone until that time."
Again Ramesses nodded. "Those symbols, Bell-in-ni's, Ko-lo-ra-do Spur-
ings. But how will I know this place?"
"Look it up on the Internet," Methos grinned and backed away, wiping
the sand clean with his feet. "See you in three thousand years!"
The Egyptian laughed at that and urged his horse to move, singing
loudly as he rode down the street. "I-N-S-A-N-I-T-Y! Insanity!"
Hiding a smile, Methos made his way slowly back to the others,
watching as Ramirez disappeared into the crowd on the quay.
"What the hell was that all about?!" O'Neill demanded, jumping down
from the cart.
Methos shrugged. They hadn't heard him warn Ramirez and Methos wasn't
about to clue them in. "Just settling an old debt," he explained
enigmatically. "Despite the way he just treated me, Ramesses and I
will one day be friends. Good friends," he added softly. "I owe him a
lot. In many ways, my very existence."
"Oh. Well, that's okay then," O'Neill nodded.
Methos smiled gratefully. Maybe Ramirez would be there -- maybe he
wouldn't, Methos considered thoughtfully as he tied the horses to the
cart then climbed into the high seat beside Teal'c. But at least he'd
tried. And it had been good to see the old peacock again, even if
their strange meeting had brought a touch of past sadness with it.
Like Jack, Ramirez had given him a chance when no one else would have.
Who knew, but maybe this was the reason why.
"Come on," he said, waving O'Neill and Daniel back into the wagon.
"Let's go see if there's any room at the inn."
Chapter 35
The setting sun painted the sky a golden orange and as soon as Methos
finished settling the account for their stay with the young acolyte he
wandered out into the gardens. Night was coming and with it the cool
that made sleep possible. The scent of jasmine, rose, lily and lotus
hung in the air around the small pool at the center of the garden,
fruit trees, flowering bushes and vines adding to the sweetness of the
evening. Methos found a seat beside the pool, absently trailing a hand
in the water until he plucked a lotus blossom, shaking it dry. He
stared at it for a moment, then smiled wistfully as he inhaled its
redolent fragrance. He would press it for Daniel and leave it in the
boy's journal as he often did with his own. Pleasant memories amidst
all the turmoil he'd known.
A flock of cranes wheeled overhead, the sound of their raucous cries
seeming to punctuate the day while miles away along the river a herd
of hippos answered the call. Methos glanced up, watching the birds,
for no particular reason suddenly reminded of his last night in Cairo
when the sound of car horns and truck engines had filled the air.
He heard a step on the gravel path behind him and turned to see
O'Neill purposefully making his way toward him. Methos looked away,
not the least bit surprised the colonel wanted a word with him.
Obviously, Jack's easy acceptance of his dissembling about Ramirez had
been for public consumption only.
"The others settling in?" Methos asked as O'Neill took a seat on the
bench beside him. Like all guests they had a small room to stow their
gear and a ladder which led to the roof where, like the rest of the
population, they could sleep to avoid the heat.
"They're fine. Carter's having a bath, Teal'c's on the roof meditating
and Daniel's drooling over his camcorder."
Methos laughed softly. "I wish I could take him back to Giza or
Karnak, but there'll be other temples to see along the river even this
far north. Either way," Methos sighed. "He'll still have some fond
memories."
"Yeah," O'Neill said uncomfortably, though Methos didn't comment on
his unspoken thought. "So what's the deal with your friend? What's his
name? Ram-something?"
Methos took a deep breath, releasing it slowly. "Ramirez is fine.
Ramesses never cared for his old names once he took a new one. He used
to say that a new name was like a new lease on life. It forced us to
leave the old ways and the old days behind."
"Used to?" O'Neill asked quietly.
"He died, or dies, in 15th century Scotland. Another victim of the
damn Kurgan."
"What's a Kurgan?"
Methos shrugged. "The Kurgans were one of the nomadic tribes living on
the Russian Steppe, but the Kurgan was an Immortal. A big, vicious
brute, who hunted heads for power and laughs. Didn't care how he got
them, either. Older Immortals quickly learned to avoid him. That's
when he started looking for pre-Immortals, killing them and taking
their heads the instant they came into their power. Got a real kick
going after the weak and defenseless. Immortal or otherwise. Connor
MacLeod, our MacLeod's cousin and Ramirez' last student, finally took
him out a few years back."
O'Neill nodded thoughtfully. "So, what did you say to Ramirez when you
ran off?"
Methos bowed his head, knowing Jack would have the truth out of him no
matter what. And in a way, he realized with a sense of surprise, he
wanted him to know. "I told him the name of the Immortal who would
kill him."
There was a long pause as O'Neill digested this obvious attempt to
alter history. Finally, he asked the one question Methos had been
dreading.
"Why?"
"It's a long story," Methos sighed. "But you're not leaving until
you've got it. Right?"
"Not a chance," O'Neill grinned. "You're better than television."
That wasn't saying much, Methos thought wryly.
"As you must have guessed, Ramirez knows I was one of the Horsemen."
O'Neill nodded and Methos slowly went on. "That came about, oh, maybe
a century ago when Egypt was in a power vacuum and the army was
virtually leaderless. We saw it as an opportunity and were raiding in
the south around Kom Ombo when Ramesses showed up with a handful of
armed troops and a couple of hundred angry villagers at his back. He
knew what we were and he wasn't having any of it. Of course, we ran.
But he and his men tracked us. When we couldn't shake him we
separated, thinking he'd pick one trail and we'd surprise him at the
end by joining up and taking them in an ambush. It didn't quite work
out that way," Methos added sardonically.
"He picked your trail," O'Neill surmised and Methos nodded ruefully.
"Rode through the desert in the heat of the day to catch up and caught
me when my horse went lame. I got lucky. Kronos had waited to see who
he'd follow and doubled back to find me. He never liked giving up
anything he considered his."
"So, you got away."
Methos nodded, shivering a little as the temperature suddenly dropped.
"Yeah, we escaped and went down to Ethiopia. You know what happened
there," he sighed. "Anyway, I didn't run into Ramirez again until
after I'd left the Horsemen."
"How did that happen?" O'Neill asked curiously. "You leaving, I mean."
"Another long story, for another time," Methos smiled sadly. "Suffice
it to say Kronos thought me dead and I was content to leave it that
way." O'Neill said nothing and Methos shrugged. "I was pretty much at
loose ends at the time. Coming down from the Horseman high wasn't
easy. I mean, you're this all powerful being to everyone around and
suddenly you're on the street looking for a job."
"Heard that," O'Neill nodded. "I tried retiring. Private sector
sucks."
"Yeah, well, I wasn't any good at it either," Methos smiled briefly.
"I'd learned to take what I wanted when I wanted it and working for a
living seemed demeaning. I'd done it before, of course. A long time
before. As a scribe in one of the Mesopotamian cities. The experience
led to my being sent into slavery with the rest of the non-combatants
when Akkad fell to Sumer. Though I did meet my first teacher shortly
thereafter. The same one as the Kurgan, by the way."
O'Neill gave him a look and the Immortal nodded tiredly. "He was
pretty bad," Methos admitted. "Had a taste for the 'well-seasoned'
Quickening -- especially if he'd salted the meat himself. I have only
one reason to be grateful to the Kurgan. He was meaner and more
depraved than the bastard who trained me. And with Ku'haktar gone that
was one less Immortal who wanted my head."
"Explains a lot," O'Neill said quietly.
"After my training," Methos shrugged, quickly changing the subject.
"Like every other useless Immortal, I became a mercenary. Then I met
the others and the rest, as they say, is history." He sighed and
looked up at the stars, pulling his himation closer as a chill wind
touched him.
"Of course, it didn't take long for the money to run short after I
left the Horsemen," he continued, returning to his story. "My business
acumen at the time was fairly limited. Counting loot and dividing
shares wasn't much of an investment strategy. And we'd lived large.
Eventually, I ended up back in Egypt -- with no funds and no real
desire to get them honestly. I wasn't about to become part of the
common herd and end up defenseless again. And I sure as hell didn't
want to be a mercenary, because that's where the others likely were
and I was avoiding them. So, I stole. Purses, trinkets, anything I
could lay hands on easily. I lived from hand to mouth and was fairly
angry about it, but what else could I do? Even if I'd wanted to become
a scribe again I'd have to go to one of the temple schools and for
that I needed money and sponsorship. I couldn't just sit down in a
public place with a few sheets of papyrus and ink. Scribes had to be
approved and licensed. After a while," he sighed. "I found myself in
Alexandria. And that's when I saw it."
"Saw what?" O'Neill asked as Methos paused, remembering.
"The Great Library," he smiled wistfully. "Thousands of books all in
one place -- and available to anyone who wanted to read. Within
reason, of course," he added ruefully. "Scholars only, please.
Disreputable looking foreigners need not apply."
"That must've hurt," O'Neill said gently.
"Pissed me off, actually. So I robbed the place." Methos laughed
bitterly. "Well, not really robbed. I was so enamored of the books and
the whole concept of them being available to me whenever I wanted that
I'd steal a few scrolls, read them through and sneak them back on the
shelves the next time I went. It never even occurred to me that I
should sell them for money. And books were really worth something
then."
"Now, that's my minion." O'Neill nodded approvingly. "Book thief
extraordinaire-- and inventor of the original lending library."
Methos raised an eyebrow, but smiled amiably. "Well, it was a foolish
thing to do," he went on. "The librarians were pretty sharp and they
caught on real fast to what was happening. Still, I didn't think
they'd tell the Guard. I mean, the books were back on the shelves
within days. Where was the harm?"
"In not being able to find what you wanted when you wanted?" O'Neill
suggested.
"Probably," Methos agreed. "Little did I know Ramirez was currently in
charge of the Pharaoh's Guard."
"Oh, man," O'Neill whispered, shaking his head.
"Yup," Methos nodded. "I think he was just as surprised to see me as I
was to see him. I couldn't afford a room and I didn't mind sleeping
outside, so I'd found a nice sheltered spot with all the other
indigents not far from the quay. It was a pretty easy life. I'd fish
to eat and read to stay sane. I thought I was being discreet, but
someone must have seen me and the gossip, as it always did, got
around."
Methos shifted uncomfortably as he remembered the awful moment when
Ramirez and his soldiers cornered him with his back to the sea.
"Anyway," he swallowed hard. "Ramesses arrested me, but instead of
throwing me into prison or challenging me, he brought me to his house
and locked me in one of the guest suites."
"He what?!" O'Neill asked in astonishment.
Methos nodded. "You think you're surprised?" he asked. "You should
have seen my face. Worse, I looked like an overgrown street urchin and
had all the emotional restraint of an adolescent."
O'Neill looked even more surprised by that comment, but Methos merely
raised a brow at the irony. "Surely you've guessed by now that
Immortals tend to stay the same age psychologically as they are
physically at first death?" O'Neill gave a half shrug and nodded.
"Well, I was no better and frankly, much worse. I might not have
remembered being raised by Tok'ra and Inanna, but I was. And it was a
pretty sheltered upbringing in spite of being in the midst of a war.
Look at your own twenty-somethings. The knowledge of the world at
their fingertips, but real worldly knowledge completely outside their
grasp unless they deliberately seek it. Life's too easy, too safe and
desires too instantly gratified. I was the same. I didn't expand my
horizons with the Horsemen, I just became dangerous, sly and wary.
Immortals only grow emotionally when they have great trauma in their
lives, or a sudden revelation of spirit. Otherwise, there's no reason
to change. And I hadn't really had either."
"So, what happened? What did Ramirez want?"
"I wasn't sure at first," Methos admitted. "Then he sent slaves to
bathe and dress me, just like you would any guest. I was certain he'd
taken a fancy to me and thought it would be fitting revenge to make me
his catamite until he decided to take my head." O'Neill looked
shocked, but Methos only shrugged. "Happened a lot in those days.
Anyway, he came that night and offered me a choice. The book of poetry
I'd been reading when he found me, or my sword."
"Interesting option," O'Neill remarked dryly.
"Just what I thought," Methos agreed. "It was a fool's choice.
Especially when I knew damn well that Ramirez was better with a sword
than almost anybody, including me. Remember, I'd almost lost to him
the first time we fought."
"So you took the book."
"Sure did," Methos grinned. "I wasn't a complete idiot. Then Ramirez
ordered me to kneel by his feet and read to him."
"Jesus," O'Neill whispered, appalled.
"Yeah," Methos nodded. "I figured I was right and threw the book at
him. Told him to bring back my sword and just finish it, because I
wasn't going to be his pet anything."
Methos stared ahead, still vaguely surprised as he recalled that
night. "He didn't get angry, just refused. Saying I'd made my choice
and now I would have to live with it. Of course, I was furious," he
shook his head. "I attacked him barehanded and he knocked me
senseless. When I woke up the room was stripped of everything and so
was I. All he'd left me was my loincloth and the book I'd been
reading."
"Okay, this is getting weird," O'Neill said uncomfortably.
"It's not what you think," Methos grinned. "Wasn't what I thought
either. He wasn't interested in my body, but my mind -- only I was too
blind to see it immediately. I spent the night shivering and the day
reading, since there wasn't anything else to do. Then Ramirez came
back and again asked me to read to him. And again I refused. For three
days this went on, until he finally asked me where the logic was in
starving myself to death when all he was asking was that I read one
little poem and discuss it with him."
"Huh?!"
Methos laughed ruefully. "Yup. That was it. Read a poem and hold an
intelligent conversation with someone who was interested in the same
thing."
"And you refused?" O'Neill looked astonished.
Methos shrugged. "I was ashamed. He'd found my weakness and I thought
he meant to use it against me. Or maybe I was just being stubborn. But
that last time... Well, what he said made sense. There was no logic in
refusing to read when it was something I enjoyed doing. And I could
smell the food he'd brought out in the hallway. I done pretty much the
same thing to hundreds of slaves and knew it was pointless to fight.
In the end, he'd win. Just as I always did. So, I gave in. Picked a
ridiculously sweet love poem and read it to him just to see what he'd
do. I thought that's what he wanted. A prelude to putting the moves on
me. Instead, he brought in the tray and asked me what I thought of
what I'd read. I told him it was silly and foolish because love didn't
really exist. We debated the point until he was satisfied with my
arguments, even if he didn't agree, then had the slaves bring me some
comfortable bedding. A week or so later when we'd finished discussing
every poem in that little manuscript, he brought me another book and
another piece of furniture after I'd done reading it."
"He kept you prisoner and rewarded you for reading?" O'Neill asked,
dumbfounded.
"Food for conversing, furniture for reading," Methos nodded. "Took
about a year, but eventually I earned back the entire contents of the
guest suite. More importantly, he taught me how to think about what I
read and how to be a discerning reader. To question not just the
author's motives, but my own as well. And to express myself clearly
and concisely in debate."
"That is just too weird," O'Neill murmured, shaking his head.
"But it worked." Methos inhaled deeply and sighed. "It took me a while
to realize it, but Ramirez did what no one else had ever done. Managed
to civilize me back into a semblance of the man I'd been before I'd
met Ku'ahktar. When the rooms were back in order I figured he was done
amusing himself with me. And by that point, I'd have been just as
grateful if he'd shown me the door and taken the experience as a
somewhat odd, but rather interesting interlude. The last book he gave
me was a copy of Plato's Socratic dialogue, On Excellence. It asks the
question, what makes a man more than just a man, but an excellent man?
We never discussed the book, but my reward for reading it was the key
to my room and another choice. I could leave or stay on as his guest."
"My guess is you stayed."
Methos nodded. "Got to thinking about what I'd be going back to," he
grinned wryly. "And being his house guest was a damn sight better than
living off my wits on the street. At any rate, he seemed pleased when
I agreed. The slaves came and dressed me nicely in all the same gift
clothes he'd given me before then he led me to the dining hall to join
his other dinner guests. Really brilliant men and women. Philosophers,
poets, mathematicians. All the great thinkers of the age. And I sat at
the foot of his couch in the son's place -- which is what he'd first
offered me when he'd wanted me to sit by his feet and read, though I
didn't realize it until then. I might have been the elder, but he was
certainly the wiser and I was grateful for it."
Methos smiled wistfully. "Pretty soon I was going to school at the
university and studying with those same men and women. And when it was
time for Ramirez to leave as he always did every twenty or thirty
years, he got me a position as a librarian in the Great Library and
told me to keep his house safe for him."
"He raised you," O'Neill said, a hint of wonder in his voice.
"He gave me back my life," Methos agreed. "And while I may have
occasionally back slid for the sake of expedience, I never forgot what
he taught me. When I ran into him in Spain just before he left for
Scotland, I thought he'd bust with pride when he found out I'd been
appointed a Court Physician."
"My son the doctor," O'Neill teased.
Methos laughed softly then shook his head. "If I'd known then he
wouldn't make it back I'd have stopped him, even if I had to lock him
up for a century."
"You owed him," O'Neill nodded.
"Everything," Methos agreed quietly.
"Okay," Jack nodded, satisfied with his explanation. "I understand why
you did it. I'd probably have done the same. But that doesn't change
things in the here and now. Ramirez could still change his mind and
come after you. So, first thing in the morning, Daniel and Teal'c are
going to get us a ride out of here. You stick close to me until we
leave."
Methos nodded. O'Neill was right. At this point in time he really
couldn't say he knew Ramirez well. In seven hundred years the man
might have changed dramatically, though he doubted it.
"By the way," O'Neill asked as he stood to leave. "Ramirez ever give
you a reason why he locked you in the Book of the Month Club?"
Startled by the question, Methos laughed softly and nodded. "As a
matter of fact, he did. But I'd forgotten, because it never made sense
to me."
"Well?" O'Neill asked when Methos didn't elaborate. "Why?"
The Immortal hid a smile. "He said one day he was going to ask me a
very important question and he was just making sure I could answer it
competently."
Chapter 36
The day was hot and stiflingly humid even on the river. Methos cracked
an eyelid as he lay half asleep beneath the shelter of their little
awning. Nearby, Jack and Teal'c took advantage of the shade as well,
while Carter seemed to be enjoying the simple luxury of traveling
through Egypt dressed in nothing more than a thin muslin sheath dress
held up by two wide straps. Daniel, of course, was at the head of the
boat annoying the men poling them up river with his endless questions.
Methos grimaced inwardly. The young archaeologist had assumed Methos
was just as interested in knowing every little detail about every
temple in Egypt as he was. Of course, he didn't bother to point out
that Adam Pierson only studied dead languages and history so that
Methos could legitimately pass as a scholar in that field -- and not
because he per se had needed to learn these things. Daniel would have
been terribly disappointed. It had simply been easier to just point
the boy in the direction of the boatmen, who knew all there was to
know about the Nile anyway and would be happy to tell him anything,
leaving Methos to sleep in peace.
He closed his eyes ignoring the horrendous cries of hippo calf as it
strayed too far from its mother and was caught by a pair of crocodiles
and dragged to its death beneath the calm waters of the Nile. On the
opposite bank, a herd of gazelles drank daintily, thundering swiftly
away when a pack of hyenas charged them.
"It's like being inside an episode of Wild Kingdom," he overheard
O'Neill tell Teal'c. "I keep waiting for the commercial break so I can
get a bowl of Fruit Loops."
Methos snorted softly. "Just think," he interjected snidely. "You'll
never have to take that senior citizens tour package to Kenya."
"If it's anything like Rawanda, I think I'll pass," O'Neill muttered,
frowning. "So, tell me, Teal'c. Ballpark figure. Just how much would
you offer to have your very own personal minion?"
"I would not purchase such a minion," the Jaffa intoned
disapprovingly.
Methos snickered. "Can't live with me, can't sell me for trying.
Sometimes, life is sweet."
"Bet the crocodiles wouldn't eat him, either," O'Neill mumbled under
his breath to Teal'c. To Methos he said, "Just put a sock in it,
Pierson. It's too hot for this shit."
"Sir, yes, sir, O Great Satan, sir," Methos retorted, touching his
forehead in a one finger salute.
Whatever Jack was about to say in response, it was cut off by the
boatman's call advising his passengers that Athribis lay just ahead.
They gathered their things, saddling the horses and hitching up the
wagon to the donkey. There were more customs officers waiting on the
dock and Teal'c showed them the chit he'd received in Sais. They
claimed it wasn't good in Athribis and named another fee they'd need
to pay. Teal'c looked to Methos, who shrugged in disgust. The pharaoh
was ill and who knew how things would go with the next one? Graft,
even in the temples was currently running high. Teal'c paid the bribe
and no one bothered to hand him another pass.
There were more soldiers on the quay here, armed to the teeth and
preparing to board a military barge. Daniel had heard the gossip and
reported that the priesthood in Thebes was once again planning a
revolt. Shishak's son, Orsokon, was going to have a difficult time
placating that mob, Methos thought dryly. Though it pleased him to
think that somewhere south of here Ptahsennes was still alive and
probably in the thick of things plotting the re-ascendance of the bull
god. And if things worked out the way he planned, the cagey old
Egyptian would still be alive when they got back. No radiation in the
ship, no reason to go see the old priest and no way for him to find
out Methos' terrible secret.
They rode into the city. O'Neill, Teal'c and Methos on horseback while
the others stayed in the cart. Athribis was another typical Egyptian
city. Small, cramped adobe houses running along narrow streets, white
washed or painted in pale colors with the occasional stone temple or
monumental statue to mark whatever history the town had. Like the rest
of Egypt, it lay along the Nile, set a few miles back from the water
to avoid being inundated by the yearly floods. Below and beyond the
town were fields, lying fallow now as everyone waited for the Nile to
finish rising for the spring then return to her winter course for
planting season in the fall. For now, there was work to be had for
everyone. Public building projects abounded, sponsored by the temples
who received their funds from the pharaoh's coffers and were nominally
in charge of everything.
It was a system that worked, Methos knew. The pharaoh's officials, and
by extension the pharaoh himself, acted as middle man for everyone.
Setting prices, paying farmers for food and artisans for their
products, then selling the surplus to other countries and
redistributing the wealth to the temples and from there through public
works to the populace. In addition, foreign traders did not deal
directly with local business men, but with the state. Egypt was, for
all intents and purposes, a controlled economy and the antithesis of
the modern free market. Nevertheless, it worked because the pharaohs
were devout in their religious beliefs which required great
generosity, continuously charging the economy with the wealth that
flowed in from above. The standard of living was fairly high and
though the system sometimes failed through famine or natural disaster
and the state occasionally went bankrupt, Egypt was a land rich in
wheat, a resource needed by the less well watered countries. The bad
times passed, the system reset itself and Egypt the Eternal went on.
They rode into town with scant attention being paid to their arrival.
The local temple to Bast, the cat headed god, had rooms to let for
worshippers. Daniel started sneezing almost as soon as they entered
and O'Neill, a dog lover, just shook his head in dismay as they were
led through corridors filled with lounging cats, who paid even less
attention to their arrival than the town folk had. The room they were
given also had its fair share of feline inhabitants and Methos gave
everyone a stern warning not to interfere with the animals once the
acolyte had gone.
"Pet them, feed them, ignore them if you like," he said adamantly.
"But shoo them away at your own peril. They're gods here and they have
rights."
Daniel sneezed again and headed for the ladder. "I'll be on the roof
if anyone wants me," he said and hurriedly disappeared.
"Pierson," O'Neill dropped his pack and sat down on a low stool near
the door. "Take Teal'c," he ordered, "and do what you do best. Go
forth and shop. I want to get out of here before morning."
"Yes, Master Satan," Methos rolled his eyes as Teal'c nodded in
acknowledgment. A short while later they were out on the street again,
walking determinedly toward the market.
It took only a few hours to accomplish their task. They needed grain
and feed for the animals, several bushels of dried fruits, nuts and
fish, and a few small items to make the journey less uncomfortable. If
they needed more they could restock when they reached the edge of the
desert.
Methos counted out the money, not happy with the exchange rate, but
unwilling to argue. Things were getting tight, but if need be he could
sell off the jewelry he'd bought in Greece so many months before. He'd
been holding that back, not only because it was an untapped resource,
but because it was such a fine example of the goldsmith's art. It
really belonged in a museum and he'd been hoping to donate the stuff
along with a handful of other pieces he'd secretly bought. Ah well, he
thought estimating any future expenditures in his head. They'd be
cutting it close, but it should be enough to make it to the desert. It
wouldn't matter after that. What food they had would have to last
until the Goa'uld appeared. There'd be no other safe resources nearby.
Mission accomplished, they returned to the temple just after sunset.
They found the others on the roof, having already eaten and preparing
for bed, but Methos was feeling particularly grimy and left to use the
baths. He found a slave and sent him to fetch water enough for Teal'c
to use. His Jaffa status and the womb opening in his belly
necessitated privacy when he washed -- though his shaved head and the
mark of Apophis he wore often won them a certain amount of respect
they would never have had.
The place was empty when Methos arrived and he sighed in gratitude as
he stripped off his clothes and sank into the cool water of the
bathing pool. Like most Egyptian priests, the worshippers of Bast were
as fanatical about bathing as they were about the awesome powers of
their god. He didn't know what one had to do with the other, but he
was just as happy to take advantage of that fact. He'd loathed the
Middle Ages in Europe. Filthy, stinking people living in cesspools for
cities.
He stretched and slid a little further into the water, resting with
his neck against the edge of the stone. God, it felt good just to have
a few minutes alone. The stress of having to hide what he knew every
minute of every day was beginning to wear on him. Not that he didn't
know very well how to keep a secret, but he could sense the rising
tension in the others and it was affecting his own composure. Jack's
ordering him to the market so late in the day was just another example
that the colonel wanted it over with already.
Methos reached for the large soap jar at the edge of the pool and sat
up to wash. He knew exactly how Jack was feeling. Knew it all too well
in fact. The awful wait before the battle was always far worse than
the actual fight. Then one had an enemy to face, a thing to do, a
purpose and function that, even briefly, defined the whole of one's
life. The anticipation, on the other hand, the sense of impending
doom, was all the more horrible when one knew one was certain to die.
Well, that part he didn't know quite so intimately, he admitted
silently as he smoothed the soap across his arms. But he'd seen it in
mortals often enough. The London Blitz had been the worst, he thought.
And so completely unexpected, even for him. He'd gotten a good post
well behind the lines as a cryptographer. Not even close to the front.
Then the bombs started falling. Only a few at first, targeting key
installations and factories. Then on the city in general, for no other
cause it had seemed than to terrorize. In the beginning, he'd gone
down into the shelters with the rest of the populace. Then, little by
little, like everyone else, he'd become inured to the horror and
stayed in his apartment with the black out curtains up or gone out to
one of the clubs.
Methos shook his head as he remembered his fatalistic attitude. Either
a bomb was going to blow his head off, or it was not. Why not be
comfortable when it dropped? An attitude, he recalled, echoed by most
of the population. Of course, his fear had been more of an abstract
worry. He'd been more likely to survive a direct hit -- and had when
the building he'd been working in had been struck. The mortals had
suffered far worse emotionally -- anticipating the pain of certain
death. Which, unless someone took a dull hand saw to his neck was
likely to be fairly quick and relatively painless in his case. But the
mortals had understood the bombs for the rain of death they were and
the questions they had raised. Will it hurt? Will I suffer? Will I lay
broken and in agony waiting to die, or smother under the rubble of my
home? Worse, will I be maimed or burned beyond my ability to cope?
And now he watched as O'Neill faced those same kinds of questions. Not
just for himself, but for the others. Carter seemed to be in denial,
knowing death was imminent, but refusing to worry before she had to.
And Teal'c was as stoic as ever, having accepted his fate long ago.
But O'Neill was suffering and it showed.
Methos finished his bath, wishing he could somehow ease the other
man's burden. But he couldn't. Not even for an instant could he let
his true intentions show.
With a deep, heartfelt sigh he rose from the water, pulling a towel
out from under a pile while leaving the cat sleeping atop it alone.
He'd tough it out as he always did, keeping his secrets and acting as
his own conscience dictated. It would be hard and, he admitted,
painful. But he would live -- and that was what counted, wasn't it?
Chapter 27
"I feel pretty... Oh so pretty..."
Methos grinned as Jack, once again dressed in full combat gear,
waltzed his weapon around their little camp on the edge of the desert.
"...I'm as pretty as pretty can be..."
O'Neill stopped suddenly and put on his sunglasses. "Ah," he sighed.
"Now that's how a desert should look in the morning. Just perfect." He
glanced at the others, ignoring Daniel's raised brows, Carter's hidden
smile and Teal'c's carefully blank expression. "What are you smiling
at, Pierson?"
"You're right," he winked. "You've never looked lovelier."
"I must agree, O'Neill," the Jaffa added in all seriousness. "You are
indeed looking quite lovely this morning."
Nonplused, O'Neill cleared his throat and straightened his jacket.
"That's enough of that. Okay, campers, time to go on the camel ride."
Methos sighed and like the others grabbed his pack. A week before
they'd finally parted company with the last of the animals -- trading
the horses as well as the donkey and cart to a band of nomadic
tribesmen from Libya for five dromedaries. No one was happy about the
exchange, but it had been necessary for a number of reasons. Most
importantly, because until they reached the underground water source
of the caves the only water they'd have would be what they could carry
with them -- and the camels could easily make the journey without
water.
Of them all, Methos was most familiar with the beasts, though both
Daniel and O'Neill had some experience. None of it good for any of
them. Camels were not the most friendly of animals and frankly, Methos
had always thought they had it in for him. He growled low in his
throat, approaching his mount -- the most intractable of the animals
and his by virtue of experience. The bastard liked to kick and spit
too much for his liking and the previous night had tried to bite him.
But this morning the Immortal was ready for it, balling his fist as he
saw the beast's lips curl and his neck start to arch. An instant later
Methos hit hard and fast, knocking the animal back a few paces as its
head shook in pain and surprise.
"Pierson!" Carter shouted in shocked dismay.
"He was preparing to bite!" Methos retorted, snatching the reins and
quickly getting the confused animal to kneel for him. "It's the only
way to let them know whose dominant," he explained testily, climbing
on then leading the camel to rise.
"Uh... He's right, Sam," Daniel nodded. "They can get pretty vicious."
O'Neill grimaced in agreement. "Well, now that we've had our boxing
lesson for today, kids, shall we?"
The desert began abruptly half a mile away. There was grass and then
no grass. The sand stretching far out onto the horizon. They traveled
with the sun at their backs, stopping at midmorning to make camp until
the heat of the day passed, sleeping until the sun was low in the sky.
They rode through the night keeping clear of any watch fires they saw
in the distance, halting only when the sun rose too high to make
travel safe. It was a dull and seemingly interminable journey, but a
little more than two weeks later they came within sight of their
objective. Not Shishak's treasure city, to which they'd stayed far
south as they traveled, but the low ridge of mountain where the caves
were hidden.
O'Neill looked back over his shoulder at the sun then at Methos. "How
much longer you figure? Couple of hours?" he asked taking a drink from
his canteen.
"About that," the Immortal agreed. It had been slow going and all any
of them wanted to do now was find some real shade, cool clean water
and settle down.
"Let's push it," O'Neill decided and the others nodded tiredly.
In three thousand years little had changed. Scrub grass, cactus and a
few hardy desert plants dotted the area. The hours passed as the ridge
drew closer until finally they tread on rock. The search for the caves
took another half hour but they found them at last, clustered just as
the map had indicated at the base of the north face.
The largest of the caves, hidden by a rock crevice, was large enough
for the camels to shelter in as well. The outer chamber was blessedly
cool and Methos ground tethered the animals with a sigh of relief.
Further inside it narrowed and curved then widened until it was twice
the size of the front. And at the back lay a spring the size of a
small swimming pool.
O'Neill knelt to drink first.
"Wait, sir," Carter said as she pulled out her scanner. "Let me test
it first."
The colonel tiredly closed his eyes and nodded. A few minutes later
she smiled. "It's safe. No trace of radiation or any other harmful
bacteria."
"Hoorah," O'Neill muttered, cupping his hands to drink. The rest did
likewise, dousing themselves with water until they were cool and
refreshed, if not exactly clean. "Okay, folks, let's get the gear
inside and make camp. Two hours rest then we set up the radar. In the
morning," he glanced at Methos. "Pierson's going to run reconnaissance
for us."
***
The day was clear and cloudless. What else was new? Methos thought
sardonically as he approached the five mile limit Carter had decreed
was a safe distance for the camel. If he'd ever imagined he'd
willingly walk into a city saturated with radiation he'd have insisted
that MacLeod take his head just to save him from his own stupidity. He
really must have been temporarily insane the day he'd signed those
papers back at the SGC. Then again, he'd been as eager as Daniel must
have been to see what lay beyond the Stargate, so he really had no one
but himself to blame if things went badly. Of course, badly for him
wasn't quite as bad as it would be for the others.
Methos tethered the beast, one of the gentler mounts this time, to
some scrub grass and changed clothes. This close to the oasis, which
was, as he recalled, one of the larger ones, there was plant growth
and the occasional patch of grass. He climbed to the top of a tall
dune and hunkered down, pulling out his field glasses. It certainly
wouldn't do to walk into town and find the Goa'uld were already
present and accounted for.
He scanned the area, nodding to himself when he saw no signs of
anything untoward. The town seemed quiet, not many people moving about
in the streets, but there was no panic or anything else which might
indicate a problem other than the invisible miasma of radiation
sickness. That would certainly account for the lack of movement, he
told himself silently.
With an internal shrug Methos tucked the glasses into the pouch at his
hip and headed in. His story, if anyone asked, was that he was
visiting family in a nearby village -- there were several in the area,
all linked via small springs to the main oasis which covered a twenty
or thirty mile area. Eventually, it too would disappear. The desert
always reclaimed its own, especially if there was no one left to clean
the silted sand from the water.
An hour later he ambled into the city via the western gate. No guards
were posted and no one asked his business which surprised him greatly.
This was, after all, a trade city on the main route to Damascus.
Strolling nonchalantly, Methos wandered down the narrow main street,
past mud brick homes where incense burned and open shops did little
business even in the cool of the day. He smelled a spicy goat stew and
licked his lips, then thought better of it when he saw the counterman
wiping his face from a nosebleed. His stomached turned and he moved
on, passing a woman with a large tumor on the side of her face. She
carried a baby in her arms whose fingers had been fused together in a
birth defect.
He swallowed hard and turned away. There was nothing he could do for
any of them, he told himself. They were dead already. Walking corpses.
They just didn't realize it.
The new temple, a grandiose affair of great stone blocks and half
finished statuary, lay at the center of the small city. He approached
it warily, searching the area for guards, but again he found none in
the vicinity. Surely the pharaoh would have assigned several cohorts?
he thought in amazement. Soldiers, he suddenly realized as he entered
the temple precinct, which would have come from the ranks of those
who'd delivered the treasure. That was how most new cities were
populated. They would have been older, stable veterans with families.
Men who would have been happy to accept a grant of land, or a
commission for trade and a home in addition to their honorable
retirement.
They must be dead or dying, Methos thought, somewhat relieved to have
solved the puzzle. And with Shishak on his own death bed there had
been no one to send replacements.
He passed under the sheltered colonnade, barely glancing at the
monumental columns that should have recorded Shishak's great victory.
But they were empty of writing and would forever remain that way.
The great double doors to the temple were open and he stepped inside,
waiting as his eyes adjusted to the dimmer lighting. Somewhere,
incense burned and he could hear the sound of chanting. Myrrh, he
thought, finally understanding. And they were singing out the soul of
the dead.
"Welcome, pilgrim," a young acolyte came forward from the shadows of a
doorway. "Have you a need to which I may attend?"
Methos moved deeper into the main hall, having no trouble at all
seeing the contents of the room. Like all large Egyptian buildings the
roof was set a good two feet above the top of the walls allowing for
light and ventilation.
"I came to buy grain in the market," he lied easily. "And heard the
tale of the Great Pharaoh's conquest over the Judeans. I only wished
to see this," he gestured widely, for on tables and stands set about
the room were the treasures of Solomon's temple. There were shields
and swords of gold set with jewels, mounds of cloth woven of costly
materials and in the center, on an alter all its own, stood his
objective. It was larger than the one he'd seen in Ethiopia, and far
more ornate -- a golden ark with winged creatures guarding the
contents. No wonder Shishak had thought it the real deal.
"It is a most powerful display," the acolyte said in a hushed tone
which hinted at sadness mixed with trepidation.
"Indeed it is," Methos agreed, reaching into the bag around his neck.
"The power of Atum-Ra is without equal," he added, pulling a gold coin
out and handing it to the young man, who took it, bowing. "For
incense," he explained. "To burn for the Golden God of the Sun whose
beneficence shines upon the Nile."
Again the acolyte bowed. "It will be done," he murmured then waited
patiently as Methos wandered around, pretending to stare like a
tourist at the displays. Instead, he counted the exits. Four, not
including the main entrance. Doubtless meant to be manned by guards.
They would lead to various parts of the temple; store rooms, guest
rooms, meditation chambers and the priests quarters. It was the guest
wing in which he was most interested. There would be outside exits
there.
He stalled for time in front of the ark, examining it carefully as he
listened to the rise and fall of the chanting. When the cadence
changed he knew the priest, no doubt revered and respected by the
acolytes, was dead. The young man escorting him looked pained and
desperate to leave so he might join his fellows and Methos took the
opportunity for which he had been waiting. He bowed low and thanked
the acolyte for his patience then beat a hasty retreat out the doors.
They closed behind him and he smiled when the sound of the locking bar
didn't immediately slam into place behind him.
He waited a moment in the shadows then quickly pushed the door ajar,
slipping inside without notice. Everyone would be with the corpse,
preparing it for burial and making the proper prayers so that the
priest's spirit would descend easily to the realm of the dead.
Taking the opposite direction from where he'd seen the acolyte appear,
Methos headed down a corridor then back up to the main hall when he
found it was the storage wing. The sound of the bare feet slapping on
stone alerted him and Methos ducked into a corner as a pair of slaves
rushed past carrying jars of oil, lamps and more incense. His next
attempt was luckier. There were no slaves here and the doors to the
guest rooms stood open, showing there was no one in residence.
Not surprising, Methos thought. I wouldn't stay here either if I
smelled that much myrrh burning in the streets. The whole city was a
giant tomb and anyone passing through here doubtless left just as
quickly.
At the end of the corridor he found what he wanted, the door to the
rear gardens. He lifted the bar and laid it aside, opening the door
and moving out into the shade of a fruit tree. He scanned the area,
smiling to himself as he saw the low wall broken only by a small
private gateway. The garden was overgrown and in need of tending --
which meant the slaves were as sick as their masters and no one was
much interested in performing unnecessary work.
Too easy, he thought, ducking back inside. He considered leaving the
door unbarred, but it might be weeks before he returned and that might
be discovered. Instead, he took the thin leather strap from the money
pouch around his neck, tying it around the wood and left an end
dangling on the other side of the door then quickly reset the bar.
Tucking the almost empty pouch in the one at his hip, Methos checked
to see if the dark leather could be seen from the last room on the
hall. It could not, and the thin layer of dust on the floor inside the
room told him that anyone coming this far down was unlikely. With a
quick nod to himself he made his way back to the main entrance, seeing
no sign of anyone, not even a slave on the way out. He'd need to do
some more reconnoitering around the outskirts of the city, looking for
a good place the bury the Ark's contents, but that shouldn't take too
long. He'd noticed quite a few empty properties on the way into town
whose owners weren't likely to be returning soon, if at all.
Chapter 38
Eight hours in the saddle was bad, Methos thought. Those same hours
spent on a camel were spine jarring. He reached down to ease a cramp
in his thigh. Probably the last of the radiation sickness clearing his
system, he thought exhaustedly. Or maybe he was just overtired. Then
again, it could be both.
After leaving the temple, he'd scouted the surrounding areas until
he'd found a ramshackle farmhouse that looked to have been abandoned.
Probably part of the original settlement which had existed before
Shishak came and built his new city hereabouts. The natives would have
been moved into better housing and required to work on the building
project as part of their customary service. Not that they would have
minded, Methos knew. Egyptian builders paid good wages. Generous
weekly amounts of grain, barley and oil were the standard fare. More
skilled workers might also receive coin.
Methos shuddered and held his stomach as a last bout of nausea
attacked him. He'd been far too close to the Ark for far too long and
this was to be expected, he reminded himself tiredly. Of course, it
had been much worse several hours earlier, despite the fact that he'd
followed Major Carter's instructions to bury his clothes then scrub
his skin with sand to remove the top layer of cells. He'd done it,
then run the radiation counter over himself to make sure he was within
acceptable limits before he dressed again and approached the camel.
Still, as with all things, there was a price to be paid and he was
feeling it uncomfortably.
The sky lightened and the sun rose at his back, warming Methos and
sending the last of the chills away. He rode on wearily, trying to
stay alert, though he'd had little sleep in the last two days. He kept
his eyes moving, looking around though there was nothing to see, but
it kept him vigilant at least. Another hour passed and the heat
increased exponentially until in the distance he saw a thin sliver of
gray. More time passed until the sliver became a slice then a wedge
and then very clearly a mound of rock.
He was a few miles out when the texture of the light around him
suddenly changed, turning from bright sunny white to a deadly golden
orange in the space of an instant. Methos didn't really have to glance
back to know what caused it, but he did, gauging the size and distance
of the sandstorm behind him.
"Oh, fuck!" he cursed, spurring the camel into a gallop as he tried to
get to his radio. The crackle of static from his pocket relieved him
of one worry. If O'Neill was trying to contact him it meant the radar
was up and running and the others were aware of the danger.
Methos managed to hit the send button and shouted an acknowledgment.
"Where the hell are you, Pierson?!" Jack's voice sounded worried.
"A few miles out!" he shouted back. "Storm's coming up behind me!"
"You've seen it?"
"I can taste it!" he responded.
"It's a big one," Jack told him. "So get a move on, soldier! We'll
meet you on the north face."
"No!" Methos called. "Stay inside! I'm almost there! Pierson out."
He broke off communication before O'Neill could argue with him.
Sandstorms were not uncommon at any time of year and could spring from
a dust devil into a raging tempest in a matter of minutes. It might
last an hour or as much as a month and bury whole towns alive. The
problem was you could never tell which. He alone stood the best chance
of surviving it, even if he smothered sheltering against the rock.
With RDF tracking they should be able to find him and dig him out,
Methos knew, but he was hoping to make it back in time. He'd suffered
that fate once and while it wasn't the most unpleasant way to die,
there was something atavistically wrong with the whole process of
drowning in open air.
The first tiny grains of sand struck him as he reached the rock. Tiny,
painful, wind driven prickles that flayed the skin even through his
clothes. He dismounted and made it the several yards to the wall,
putting the camel between him and the storm. It helped to block some
of the wind, but the powder fine sand of the desert filled the air and
he was forced to breathe it in, coughing as he took a moment to cover
his head and face with the edge of his robe. Then blind, with one hand
to the wall and the other holding tight to the reins, Methos pulled
himself along the rock face.
It might have been ten minutes, it might have been an hour, but it
felt like forever before his fingers curled around the edge of the
crevice that led to the cave entrance. A hand gripped his wrist and he
felt himself pulled into the lee of the wind as he staggered inside,
coughing hard as he fell to his knees. Someone wiped his face with a
wet rag then gave him water to drink and he rinsed his mouth then
drank the rest, opening his eyes to find the others staring at him,
relief evident on their faces. Most especially Carter's, who stood
over him double checking her scanner readings before announcing Methos
was radiation free.
"Is it them?" he asked, having heard that Goa'uld ships often caused
storms as they landed.
"Unknown," Carter responded. "We've got limited range as it is and the
weather's playing havoc with the system."
Methos nodded. The small satellite dish they'd originally carried with
them to Egypt was a multi-purpose unit, but meant to work in
conjunction with a larger system. In its present state, it could track
an object within a hundred mile radius but at a distance of only fifty
miles.
"We should know soon anyway," Daniel added. "The storm on Abydos only
lasted a few hours."
"Yes," Teal'c agreed. "If it is indeed the Goa'uld, they will send out
gliders to secure the area and begin the process of enslavement."
"How fast does that generally happen?" Methos asked as he slowly
removed his sand encrusted outer robe.
"That depends," Teal'c replied. "If the new world is uninhabited at
present the people will require livestock and food to sustain
themselves until such time as they can grow more. That is likely the
case here," he added. "Given the large numbers they appear to have
taken."
The tension now was palpable. Not knowing exactly when the Goa'uld
ship arrived placed them at a distinct disadvantage. Not one they
couldn't overcome, but it made the situation nerve-wracking.
"Okay, let's take things in order. Pierson," O'Neill finally ordered.
"Get cleaned up," he pointed towards the water. "You can sleep after
you've debriefed us."
"Oh joy," Methos muttered as he made his way to the back. Someone had
set up one of the tent halves as a modesty screen and he moved in
behind it. With a sigh, he stripped off the rest of his garments then
slid into the water. He'd tell them everything, of course. No point in
not doing so. At least it would keep them occupied while he plotted
his next course of action.
***
The hours passed drawing into days making the sandstorm a natural
occurrence. It both frustrated the cave dwellers and relieved their
tension. According to Teal'c, the Goa'uld might land in such weather,
but they would remain aboard their ship until it cleared sufficiently
to allow their scout ships to go out and scan the area without
impediment -- another worry to contend with.
Food was also a problem. Methos had intended to hunt for meat to
supplement their stores, but that was impossible now. Outside, the
storm raged and howled endlessly, while inside they cut back to half
rations. Water was plentiful, but as one week dragged into the next
and they all lost weight they began adding in recuperative time to the
plan. They'd all need time to rebuild their strength, especially
Methos, who secretly cut his own rations even further. He could die of
starvation, and had in the past, though he knew what Jack would say to
that. The colonel would be furious. But then, what O'Neill didn't know
would only hurt Methos -- and what was all his planning for if he
couldn't be certain they'd be able to get themselves safely past the
Goa'uld and back through the gate?
Again and again O'Neill made them go over the plan to steal the Ark.
And again and again Methos insisted they follow through with their
plans to take the ship, until the strain of the charade began to show.
They were short-tempered and snappish. All of them. Even Daniel grew
weary of the drills. But they had to be done and they all knew it.
Near the end of the second week they awoke to silence. As a group,
they headed for the exit, sighing with relief when they saw the sun
rising in a clear sky. Methos turned and ran to get his weapons.
"Going somewhere?" O'Neill asked, following him.
"To hunt," he nodded. "The wildlife's going to be hungry. Out and
about looking for food the same as we are."
"Good point," the colonel nodded, grabbing one of the saddle blankets
for the camels. "I'll go too."
"No," Methos said, taking only his quiver of arrows. A gun shot in the
desert might be heard for miles. "Get some feed and spread it over the
rocks. The birds will be hungry as well. Get snakes and sand crabs
too, if you spot them. Storms like that one usually come in sets.
Where there's one there's several. We'll need all the food we can
get."
"I hear that," O'Neill nodded. "Carter keep an eye on the radar," he
ordered as the others joined them.
"Yes, sir."
"Radio if anything shows up. Teal'c, Daniel, you're with me."
A little while later Methos was gone, bringing an extra camel to carry
what he expected would be a heavy load. And every time he saw a flock
of birds overhead he smiled, knowing O'Neill was having a bit of fun.
Chapter 39
The days passed with excruciating regularity in a tedium punctuated
only by a daily turn at the radar and the occasional fight with a
camel. And then it happened. Just a tiny blip on the screen, but it
was enough to set things in motion. Methos didn't know whether to be
relieved or angry. The end was almost in sight, he realized, but the
worst was coming. Oh, for sure it was coming...
***
"One doesn't have to be prescient to see what's happening here,
O'Neill!"
They'd been fighting on and off for days now. As soon as the Goa'uld
had landed already frayed nerves had snapped and tempers had flared to
monumental proportions. And after three weeks of reconnaissance
missions to the outlying villages which proved their original theory
correct, depression and despair had become constant companions.
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?!" the colonel demanded.
"I don't know, you tell me?" Methos retorted, being deliberately
obtuse. "Something's not right here. I don't know what it is, but my
gut is telling me you're holding out on us. I've seen the way you and
Teal'c or Carter go off," he gestured towards the others, who
carefully pretended not to watch. "Those little heart to hearts," he
sneered at O'Neill. "What is it you're not saying?"
"What is it?" Jack taunted sarcastically, being deliberately
offensive. "The five thousand-- No, excuse me, ten thousand year old
man is befuddled by a mere mortal?"
Silently, Methos applauded the snide remark. Just as he was pushing
O'Neill's buttons, the colonel was very shrewdly pushing back. If
they'd been alone he would have laughed and let it slide. But he was
playing to an audience -- as was O'Neill.
They both needed this fight. He, in order to distract everyone and
make his move, while the colonel needed him upset and angry to
obstruct his supposed search for the truth. Or, more importantly from
Methos' point of view, to keep him from saying anything which might
alert Daniel to their macabre charade. What they both needed now was a
direct attack. One that would force O'Neill's hand.
With a nasty smirk Methos fired off the final sally. "No. Not
befuddled. I just want to know why you're lying to us. What is it you
don't want us to know?"
"Captain Pierson!" O'Neill barked coldly, taking the bait. "It's time
you remembered that I'm in charge here! It's also time you remembered
it's not your job to question your orders. It's your job to obey them!
I suggest you do so!"
Methos opened his mouth as if to reply.
"This discussion is over, Captain!" O'Neill shouted.
Methos stiffened to attention. "Yes, sir!" he snarled and stalked
toward the exit, glancing back over his shoulder as Jack turned away.
Hiding his sorrow for what he'd done, Methos turned his eyes forward
and walked out. O'Neill's posture hadn't relaxed even after he'd won
the argument -- which meant his angry demeanor had been merely a
facade. A bit of necessary playacting to keep the Immortal off
balance. O'Neill no doubt supposed that if Methos were truly angry he
wouldn't be likely to ask questions, or talk to the others about any
suspicions he might have. He was right. But in this case, misdirection
was a two way street.
Methos hurriedly left the cave, looking for all intents and purposes
as though he were off to sulk over that very public dressing down.
Instead, he went to another cave they'd been using as a stable and
quickly saddled one of the camels. His preparation long since made,
now was the time to act. With five of six villages already
depopulated, it wouldn't take long for the Goa'uld to strip the last
and move onto the city. That would take longer, but Methos had no idea
how far the Goa'uld had gotten in their original plan before the
priests brought them the Ark.
The general consensus was that it must have been done near the end.
When the priests in the city finally realized they were in some kind
of danger. But that was a modern viewpoint, which presupposed that
danger had to be obvious for fatal action to be taken. Not so in the
ancient world. It could have been served up first, just as the Judeans
had done to Shishak. Either as tribute or weapon, it didn't matter.
But it made Methos nervous whenever he thought about it. And somewhere
in the back of his mind he had a sneaking suspicion they were running
out of time.
***
"Uh, Jack," Daniel asked as he found O'Neill sitting on a rock in the
cool evening air cleaning his gun. "Have you seen Adam?"
The colonel didn't bother to look up. "Not since this morning," he
answered, carefully avoiding any mention of the fight. It was
unfortunate, but done was done. "Probably off sulking in one of the
other caves."
"That's what I thought," Daniel responded worriedly. "But I can't find
him anywhere. And one of the camels is missing."
O'Neill shrugged. "Maybe he went hunting. He'll be back. Sooner or
later."
Daniel nodded slowly and moved to sit nearby. "His bow's still here,"
he said quietly. "You don't think he knows, do you?"
"Knows what?" O'Neill asked flatly as he stood to check the stores. If
he knew what Methos had taken, he'd be able to guess where the
Immortal might have gone and how long he planned to absent himself
from their little community.
"Come on, Jack," Daniel said as he followed. "This is me. You don't
have to pretend. I know we're not getting out this time. I was just
hoping Adam hadn't guessed."
For a moment O'Neill looked crestfallen. "You knew? All this time? Why
didn't you say anything?"
Daniel shrugged. "I didn't think you wanted me to know, so I kept
quiet."
"What? And not help us plan this last group activity," O'Neill
grimaced wryly.
"Dying in horrible agony?" Daniel retorted with equal sarcasm.
"But we'll all be together. Writhing and screaming as one."
"Proper military protocol," Daniel agreed sadly.
O'Neill nodded absently, hiding a look of alarm as he checked Methos'
pack. Sure enough his bow and sword were there, but his canteen and a
zat gun were missing.
"God damn it!" O'Neill cursed his own shortsightedness. If Daniel knew
then Methos must have figured it out. "Christ!" he sighed, rubbing his
face then went to check the mission gear, shaking his head as he found
the containment blanket missing and counted only four radiation suits.
"Damn him to hell!" O'Neill hissed. "Arrogant son of a..."
"What's wrong?" Daniel asked nervously from behind.
"He's gone. Alone. To steal the Ark." Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! he
shouted silently. Why couldn't the man just follow orders?!
"We have to go after him!" Daniel insisted.
"We can't!" O'Neill turned and held up one of the now useless suits.
They'd been shredded beyond repair. "He's made sure we couldn't. And
by now it's too late. In a little while," Jack glanced up at the moon
slowly rising above them. "God help him, he'll have his hands on the
Ark."
"What's that?" Daniel suddenly asked, reaching for a piece of papyrus
stuck to one of the suits. He handed it to Jack, who opened the note
and shook his head in dismay.
"He says if he's not back by tomorrow night," O'Neill read aloud. "We
should leave for the ship without him, he'll meet us there."
"Okay," Daniel nodded. "So he's got a plan. That's great."
"No. It's not." O'Neill briefly closed his eyes and sighed. "Because
he'll never make it."
"He's Immortal, Jack. If Adam says he can do it then he probably can."
"He can't!" O'Neill snapped in frustration and turned away. "Because
his plan is our plan -- a mission meant for five."
Chapter 40
Night had fallen by the time Methos reached the old mud brick
farmhouse with its deep, dry well that he had chosen as his base of
operations. He set the camel free, giving the mean bastard a good
solid slap on the rump to get him started. No point in the beast dying
as well, he thought, knowing it could survive just fine on its own out
in the deep desert. Probably happier too, Methos thought as he went
into the house and dug his gear out of storage.
Using his flashlight he quickly sorted through the bundles, laying
aside the suit and blanket for now as he focused on setting the
explosive charges inside the well. It was almost certain he wouldn't
have enough strength to fill it in with sand, so he'd decided on the
more expedient route of simply blowing in the stone walls of the old
well. Enough sand and rock should cover the package, giving him time
to recover and decontaminate himself once he got away. O'Neill was
going to be furious at being out maneuvered, but hell, what were
friends for?
Methos secured the rope ladder he'd made and carefully lowered himself
down. The pre-measured charges he'd stolen from Jack's pack were
simple to use and came with a radio detonator. A few strategically
placed at varying intervals would easily do the job.
A short time later, feeling satisfied that the well would implode and
smother its dangerous contents rather than explode the package
outward, Methos climbed up and stowed the ladder to the side.
Not that he feared discovery, he thought bemused. When he'd scouted
the city earlier he'd seen minimal Goa'uld presence in the streets --
just a pair of Jaffa forcing a few hundred workers to empty the temple
granaries. No doubt they thought it wise to send as much food as
possible through the gate to support the populace. Little did they
know it was poisoned.
And the people were docile. Lethargic, though they moved well enough
to suit their new masters. Of course, the gods were always entitled to
their grain, so maybe it was okay with everyone. Or maybe they were
just too sick to care.
Methos put aside the thought as he changed clothes. Uniform on first,
then the suit was how O'Neill had planned it. No doubt the colonel was
right in this case. The uniforms were made with a certain amount of
charcoal to offer some protection from radiation.
With a frown, he looked at the suit. The cumbersome thing would impede
his movement and he needed to be quick getting through the streets.
Granted, the civilians were already in a state of shock and would
likely run from the sight of him, but the Goa'uld wouldn't. He'd carry
it in the pack that held the blanket and put it on at the temple, he
decided swiftly, shoving it inside and leaving the house.
He checked his weapons, a zat gun and the pair of daggers he always
wore, then strapped on the heavy pack. It weighed nearly a hundred
pounds all told, but he could manage.
With a sigh, he steeled himself for the five mile hike to Tanlit. At
the very least it would give him time to achieve an appropriate mental
state. One of the Tibetan forms of meditation, he decided. One in
which he would be hyper alert while at the same time able to control
some of the nausea and pain. It would not be enough, he knew -- for
that he had the drugs -- but it would suffice until they kicked in and
made it bearable.
With an amused smile Methos started walking. Would he have even
considered trying this alone had the colonel not already primed him
with medications? Convinced him that Immortals and drugs did mix well?
He doubted it. Without them, he couldn't even begin to hope for
success, no matter how rapidly he healed.
Whatever the case, it didn't matter now. His course was set. And with
that in mind Methos put all questions of how or why he came to be here
aside. With a slow deep breath he began his mental preparations,
walking swiftly and surely toward the city -- and whatever fate
awaited him there.
***
As Methos reached the city limits he was more than a little surprised
to find absolutely no movement on the streets. Not even the Jaffa
guards were present. Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, he
took the back alleys, making his way stealthily to the visitors'
garden behind the temple. In the distance, several miles away, he
could see the modern lights of the Goa'uld ship. Eerily familiar, yet
unsettling in this time of shadowy lamp light and rush torches.
The gate was unlatched and Methos entered, dropping the weighty pack
by the entrance to the guest quarters. He found his string
undiscovered, quietly lifting the bar and catching it before it could
fall as he silently opened the door.
Too easy, he thought as he had the first time he'd been here, refusing
to acknowledge the reason why. Instead, he grabbed the pack and
slipped into the last guest room. Good enough, he thought as he closed
the door and lit the small night lamp on the low bed table. He removed
the suit and the rest of his equipment. The gas mask, gloves and boot
covers were standard gear, carried in their packs on every mission and
like the uniforms, designed to offer some protection from radiation as
well.
He laid them out beside the suit on the bed, then got out the drugs
from the med kit. The same ones Carter had given him so many months
before. Methos frowned as he loaded several syringes. Reminded that
O'Neill had meant for him to have these all along. Not for this, but
to get himself safely away from his friends' contaminated corpses.
Well, he'd show them how it was done. As an Immortal willingly serving
the military, Methos viewed himself not just as a man with unique
abilities, but as a weapon. More fool Jack if he didn't consider using
him as one. His life was not expendable by any stretch of the
imagination, but this mission wouldn't kill him. It would simply be
another hideous experience he'd have to endure, like so many others in
his long and varied life. And while he greatly appreciated the
consideration O'Neill offered, being ordered to do this alone would
not have offended him. Annoyed him at first, certainly, but he'd have
understood the mission commander's choice. Pick the best possible
candidate to complete the mission with the least loss of life. Methos.
The simple, expedient choice.
The vials were empty now and one by one he injected himself with the
drugs -- pretreatment being the only course of action he would be able
to take. It would stave off the more serious side effects for a time,
working in conjunction with his Quickening. But eventually, he knew,
his system would be overwhelmed. To that end, he carefully secured a
half dozen pre-measured doses of morphine to one wrist with thin
strips of adhesive tape. The extra anti-nausea drugs he'd manufactured
would have to hang from a lead lined pouch at his hip beside the
detonator and his zat gun.
Methos dressed quickly, wasting no more time as the drugs coursed
through his system making him a little lightheaded by the time he was
finished. He strapped on the pack, empty now but for the blanket,
slipped on his gloves and tucked the mask under his arm. He blew out
the lamp then left the room, easily making his way down the corridor
by moonlight.
A few yards further down the hall, Methos smelled the familiar stench
of death. Startled, he glanced to the side and saw what looked like a
body on the floor in one of the rooms.
Of course, he thought, hurriedly moving on. When the Goa'uld arrived
proclaiming themselves gods the priests of Atum-Ra would have sent
slaves to prepare the rooms. Not for the gods, obviously, but for all
those who would surely come to worship.
But there was another side to that coin. The death of the slave would
have been seen as ill-omened -- and auguries taken from the diseased
riddled entrails of any local animals would have further upset the
priests. No wonder they were considering destroying these so-called
gods! Everything the Goa'uld might have said was being countermanded
by the spiritual signs. The great god, Atum-Ra himself was telling
them that these were demons only pretending to be his servant gods!
How ironic, Methos thought, quickly dismissing the priests and their
doomed religion. Near the end of the corridor he suddenly paused,
stunned as the sound of muffled chanting reached his ears through the
door to the Great Hall. It couldn't be!
"Shit!" he exclaimed, rushing forward as he shoved his mask on, pulled
out his weapon and flung open the door in the space of a moment.
The hall was full of priests surrounding the Ark. All dressed in their
finest priestly robes they'd obviously been preparing to carry it off.
The chanting stopped at the sight of him, replaced by screams as he
started indiscriminately firing.
A half dozen or so went down easily, the others running to hide -- no
doubt thinking the Hebrew god himself had come to make them stop.
Methos didn't care as he strode forward, stepping over bodies, past
spilled incense burners and magical artifacts until he reached the
Ark.
He dropped the pack and pulled out the blanket, spreading it across
the ground. Putting his back into it, he shoved aside the heavy lid of
the Ark, reaching around inside until he felt another box.
Damn! he cursed silently as he felt a smaller stone sarcophagus. The
thing weighed almost as much as the blanket and Methos lifted it out
carefully, hurriedly lowering it to the floor. No way could he carry
this thing alone and reach the well in time. But then it wasn't the
box he was after, or so he hoped. Holding his breath, Methos opened
the top and tipped it over, smiling as the contents, a small misshapen
rock, fell into the center of the blanket.
"There you are," he murmured, feeling nothing but the slightest warmth
as he slowly wrapped and rolled the cover until the stone was securely
inside. That done, he slid the whole thing back into the pack and
strapped it on, taking a moment to close the box and lift it back
inside the Ark. It wouldn't really matter in the end. But O'Neill
would have a fit if he found out Methos hadn't followed any of their
agreed upon safety protocols.
Such a tiny thing to cause so much devastation, Methos thought
absently as he again stepped across the priests to leave. They were
surely dead now, most never having recovered from being shot. He
ignored their blood, grateful for the mask which also filtered out the
stink of their dying.
Moving quickly, but cautiously, Methos went through the guest
quarters, taking extra care as he reached the garden gate. He paused,
searching the streets for any Jaffa who might have been alerted by the
screams.
Nothing, he snorted derisively. Probably safely tucked up in their
ship, he mused disgustedly as he backtracked along the alleyways. How
secure they must feel among the primitives!
"Arrogant bastards," he muttered, giving one final glance toward the
distant ship. Well, they'd certainly get a nasty shock when SG-1
showed up firing.
A few minutes later Methos found himself at the edge of town. He kept
a steady pace as he walked, a little startled when he felt something
warm and wet strike his upper lip. A nosebleed, he realized, as the
first droplets ran in twin trickles across his mouth and down his chin
to pool where the suit collar and mask joined.
What an odd sensation, he thought absently.
Of course, he'd bled from the nose before, but never like this. A blow
to the face tended to obscure the simple discomfort of fluid gushing
down one's face. Trying to ignore it as he hurried on, Methos breathed
through his mouth, tasting blood as he longed to lift the mask and
wipe the mess away. Impossible, he knew, but an instinctive reaction
nonetheless. And this was only the first sign of radiation poisoning.
The next symptom was just as irritating and not long after in coming.
Dizziness. Again he tried to ignore it, setting his eyes on the ground
ahead as he often did when he was slightly drunk. That thought
reminded him that he was also slightly queasy. Another sensation he'd
experienced on occasion, but nothing much to trouble over. At least
not yet.
He walked on, breathing heavily while the sand seemed to drag at his
feet. As he topped the first rising dune, a sudden, unexpected wave of
nausea hit, forcing Methos to his knees as his vision blurred and he
choked on blood, swallowing back the urge to vomit. Blinking hard, he
focused forward, getting slowly to his feet to stagger on.
More time passed and Methos soon began to worry about becoming lost.
As the nausea came in wave after brain fogging wave his vision blurred
then cleared then blurred again, the process repeating far too often.
Still, he forced himself to move on, focusing on a single bright star
as he set a course in his mind.
It seemed to clear his thoughts a little, to center himself and
meditate on a single goal. Yet, that clarity of purpose without
thought left him open to other things. To that quiet, but oddly
familiar voice echoing in the stillness of his mind.
You really ought to ask for help, it whispered gently.
Help?! Methos thought confused. Only vaguely amused by the absurdity
as the weird notion seemed to sing in his head. An aural
hallucination, surely. Just something his obviously delusional
subconscious had cooked up to torment him. Another part of the all-in-
one radiation poisoning package.
But there is always help, if you want it...
Methos bit his lip, trying to ignore the words resounding through his
brain along with the pounding headache that had suddenly started up to
add to his woes.
I don't have time for this! he shouted silently at the voice. Now, be
a good hallucination and fuck off!
Oddly enough, that brought silence to his mind, but did nothing for
the headache which thrummed painfully with each dogged step Methos
took.
He was a little more than halfway to his goal when a sudden violent
cramp brutally twisted his stomach. Methos fell to the ground,
writhing for a moment as he ripped off his gloves trying to get at the
morphine. He managed to extract a single dose, but his hands shook so
badly he dropped the syringe in the sand.
"Damn it!" he hissed, forcing himself to his knees. He swept the sand
with his hands, finding the needle near his foot.
Several frantic tries later he finally got the wrappings off.
Normally, he would have thought to inject it in his thigh, but the
lead suit was far too thick for that trick. Still, he'd considered
this problem earlier and planned ahead. Pressing his left wrist
beneath his knee to hold his hand steady and enlarge the veins in the
back of his hand, Methos gritted his teeth, whining under his breath
as the pain suddenly increased and he stuck himself. Not caring if he
popped the vein as long as something got into his bloodstream. He must
have managed it somehow, because a few moments later the pain started
to ease.
"Good god," Methos sighed, letting his head drop forward while he
caught his breath. The morphine helped, but it also cleared his mind
enough to let him feel the other symptoms he'd been ignoring. The suit
was no longer simply cumbersome, but uncomfortably tight, he noticed,
when he tried to replace the gloves. An impossible task as he quickly
discovered that his hands had swollen to more than twice normal size.
And he was wet, he realized. There was blood running not only from his
nose and ears down his neck, but from other orifices down his thighs.
Internal hemorrhaging? he thought, startled by the swift progression
of the illness. Worse yet, his back where the pack rested against the
suit was growing warmer.
A sense of desperation finally taking hold, Methos stumbled to his
feet. He slid another morphine dose out and injected himself against
the pain already rising. Then, reorienting himself on the location of
the house, he began to run. It might hasten his death, but he had to
get there before he died. Had to dump the blanket and set off the
explosives or he would never make it back in time.
Twice more he had to stop. Once to clear his mask of bloody vomit and
again to kill the pain. He lurched forward at the end, moving on will
alone as he blearily saw the house then blundered over a stone a mere
ten feet from his objective. Not now! he thought as he hit the ground
hard and blood filled his lungs.
Methos didn't even have the strength to struggle against the loss of
air. And as asphyxia set in he heard the voice of his conscience
chiding him again.
All you needed to do was ask...
Even as he died, Methos really wished it would just shut up.
***
Methos revived to a single moment of clarity. The only thought in his
mind as he felt the awful heat of the pack searing his back was that
O'Neill had been right. Five would have made it in time. Five could
have carried the mission pack by the handles Carter had devised.
Handles Methos had discarded in favor of the pack. Five would never
have needed to touch the actual pack after retrieval, avoiding the
immediate radiation saturation of their suits. Saturation levels which
Methos had achieved far too soon by wearing the pack on his person.
Yes, they would have died. But together, five would have gotten the
job done right. Only he'd been too arrogant to see it.
The all too brief moment of painless reflection passed quickly as his
body was suddenly racked with cramps. Amazing, he thought, distantly
aware of the nausea returning. Never in all his centuries had he
revived feeling worse than when he'd died. Apparently, he was healing
just enough to revive, the radiation being too powerful to heal all
the rest. Another thing he hadn't taken into consideration. He had to
get the pack off, he realized. And fast.
Methos struggled onto his side, fumbling for the straps. Horrified, he
saw his fingers as if they were foreign objects -- numb and swollen so
badly he couldn't seem to make them work. Long minutes passed as the
pain escalated then his vision suddenly blurred, shifting to gray as
he collapsed back onto the sand.
***
Methos revived, not gasping for air, but vomiting blood clots which
felt like lumps of flesh as they passed through his esophagus. The sun
was just coming up and he knew he'd been dead a long time. With what
little strength he had, Methos fought to release the straps. He
managed to loosen one then the world went dark and he awoke again only
to find the sun even higher in the sky.
Again and again he repeated the process, not knowing how many times he
died that day, but each one seemed worse than the last. Pain was his
life and his burned and bloody fingers, working in fits and starts,
finally managed to unleash him from the fire at his back.
And still it wasn't over. He revived again in the early evening
feeling a little better than before and gave the pack a nudge. It
moved a few inches toward the well, but ten feet in his condition
seemed an enormous chore. Then he remembered the morphine. He had
three shots left and would likely need them all. Still, with the pack
away from his body, his Quickening seemed able to keep him alive just
a bit longer. It took two more deaths before he was able to get the
syringe out and finally inject himself. With the pain at a manageable
level again he could now think about getting the contaminated suit
off. The cumbersome thing was doubtless adding to his misery, he
thought blearily as he fought to remove the helmet.
It eased his nausea somewhat as the cool evening air finally touched
his face, then Methos saw his blood matted hair stuck in the well of
the helmet. Forgot about the being bald part, he thought dizzily as he
suddenly vomited again.
For hours he struggled to remove the rest of the suit. His bloated
limbs making it nearly impossible. It took several tries and another
shot of morphine, but Methos finally managed it. Then came his uniform
-- and with it much of his skin.
Still, the next time Methos revived his body seemed less bloated and
to his relief most of the burns were gone. Using his final shot of
morphine and a large dose of the anti-nausea medication to steel him
against the raging discomfort, he finally managed to get everything
into a pile with the pack, shoving it forward a whole two feet before
he finally collapsed.
It seemed to take forever. Living for the one purpose and dying before
he'd achieved it far too many times. The moon was setting by the time
Methos finally got the pack and the pile of his gear to edge of the
well and over the side. For a long moment he lay on his back, sobbing
in relief as he stared up at the stars.
Too late, he suddenly realized as the first light of dawn began to
color the sky. The others would have long since left for the ship.
Though he was dying less often and for briefer times, his body was
still saturated with radiation. He didn't need to be a rocket
scientist to know he would never make it back in time. The others
would have to leave, knowing he was alive, but that they could not
reach him.
So be it, Methos thought, and began the difficult job of maneuvering
himself away from the well. Exhausted, sick and in excruciating pain
he managed to crawl thirty yards away from the blast area in just
under four hours dying only seven times. A record, he mused as he
fumbled with the detonator. The well must be shielding him, Methos
surmised, but not by much.
Death came no easier this time as the pain surged and he contorted,
gasping in agony -- feeling only gratitude this time as he faded into
darkness yet again.
***
Methos woke with his face resting in the cool sand. After a moment's
disorientation he remembered to push the detonator button and set off
the charges, ignoring the blast as he choked up even more blood to his
disgust.
I should just lay here, he thought as the last echoes died away. In a
few weeks, maybe even days, another sandstorm would come by and remove
the contaminated sand he lay on. It would probably bury him as well,
but right about now he didn't care. A thousand years or so of oblivion
waiting for another storm to uncover him seemed like a good idea.
"No. It's not. You're friends are waiting."
Oh, god, Methos thought wearily. The hallucinations were back.
"Obstinate child. I never left," came the bemused response, along with
a warm static discharge tickling his side.
He twitched away, too exhausted by the sudden movement to even open
his eyes. Still, there was something familiar here. Something about
the voice. Something about the touch...
"It's the only place you're really ticklish," the voice commented
wryly.
It couldn't be! Methos thought, horrified. He was gone!
But that was then. And this was...
"Tok'ra?!" Methos whispered as the familiar presence surrounded him
and he nearly wept with relief.
"Well, it's about time!"
Chapter 41
"Change of plans," O'Neill told what was left of his team as they
hunkered down out of sight of the Goa'uld ship sitting just over the
next rise.
"Sir?" Carter asked.
"We take the ship, figure out how to get Pierson aboard, then fly that
sucker somewhere safe until he can recover."
"But, sir," Carter pointed out. "He'll be nearly as radioactive as
whatever's in the Ark."
"Teal'c?" O'Neill asked simply.
"This ship should have equipment similar to the radiation suits we
created," the Jaffa stated plainly. "They may even have a sarcophagus.
At the minimum, we can utilize a tractor beam to retrieve his body
then place him in one of the holds."
"It might work," Carter nodded. "If we flush the hold often enough it
should clear out most of the radiation. What's left will be nominal.
Once we get Pierson decontaminated we should be safe enough with him
on board."
"My thought exactly," O'Neill muttered.
"So, what's the plan?" Daniel asked.
"Same as always," O'Neill responded. "Shoot anything that moves and
make sure it doesn't get up."
***
"That's the last one," Daniel said as O'Neill and Teal'c heaved
another body out the airlock.
"Did ya see their faces?!" Jack crowed to Teal'c.
"They were indeed quite startled, Colonel O'Neill."
"That's one word for it," Daniel muttered.
"Scared shitless is two," O'Neill responded cheerfully. "Wanna try for
three?"
"Not really," Daniel commented, hiding a smile.
"Sir!" Carter called over the radio. "You'd better get up here!"
"We're on our way!" he called back, heading on the double for the
command center.
"Sir," Carter said as they arrived. "I'm not sure what it is, but I'm
getting some odd readings here."
Teal'c stepped up to the controls where she stood. Then glanced out
the large viewing window. "Major Carter is correct. There are several
gliders returning." He fired on the ships, taking them by surprise,
until not one was left intact. "There may be others. It would perhaps
be best if we moved."
"Go for it," O'Neill told them, hopping into the command chair. "We
need to pick up Pierson anyway."
A minute or two later they were airborne and the fifteen or so miles
to reach Methos' location took only a few moments longer.
"Uh, sir?" Carter said querulously. "Isn't that..."
"Adam," Daniel nodded, staring in wonder as Methos hung suspended in
midair, surrounded by a semi-transparent ball of golden light.
"Well, I'll be damned!" Jack muttered, heading for the window. "That's
Tok'ra. Gotta be."
"It's moving, sir," Carter told him. "Look's like he's leading us away
from here."
"A wise precaution," Teal'c nodded. "The contamination in this area is
extremely high. We will need to be well away from here before a
transfer can safely be made."
They headed south, towards Aswan, landing the ship not far from where
Tok'ra's modified carapace paused in the midst of the desert.
"We okay to open the front door?" O'Neill asked.
Carter gave a half shrug and nodded. "Tok'ra must somehow be
containing the radiation. I'm not getting any readings. I'd say it's
safe as long as Pierson's kept shielded."
"Do it," O'Neill ordered and headed for the hatchway, quickly followed
by the others.
They reached the main corridor just as Methos' body was brought
aboard, trailing after Tok'ra as the Ancient led the way to the
Goa'uld sarcophagus. The Quickening settled over the device, the lid
sliding back allowing Methos to be gently lowered inside. The coffin
closed and the golden ball slowly metamorphosed into a more fluid
cloud of glowing light which surrounded them all.
"It is safe now," a deep bass voice rumbled through their minds. "The
sarcophagus will transmute the radiation into less dangerous forms of
energy. It will take time, but Methos will revive."
"Uh, thanks," O'Neill said, somewhat taken aback as he reached out to
touch the wall of light that was the Ancient's life force and felt a
mild electrical shock.
"You are all most welcome," Tok'ra's voice sounded amused.
"Hey, uh, can I ask you something?" Jack wondered.
"Certainly, Colonel O'Neill," the Ancient allowed.
"Was he, you know, Methos, always this bullheaded?"
There was laughter in all their minds at that. "A stubborn child,"
Tok'ra confided. "But always with good intent."
"Not always," Daniel pointed out.
"True," Tok'ra agreed, quietly. "At this moment in time he is not
himself. And some of that is my fault. Had I not raised him so gently
the trauma of his life might not have been so great. But these are
things no parent can know. Still, I am pleased with the way he turned
out. The choice to sacrifice his own comfort and safety for that of
his friends was a thing I never again expected of him."
"Yeah, well, thanks for the insight," O'Neill grimaced. "I thought it
was just me."
They could somehow feel that Tok'ra was smiling. "Now, may I ask you a
favor?"
Jack squinted at the light, frowning. "I don't care if he's the Son of
God. Ten thousand push ups and not one hump less," he declared firmly.
"I will leave the military discipline in your obviously capable
hands," the Ancient chuckled. "But the favor is one of great import to
me -- much more so than the chance to see his face when you tell him
that -- O Great Satan!"
Now it was O'Neill's turn to laugh. "Sure," he said, relaxing.
"Shoot!"
"Would you do me the honor of looking after my son when I cannot?"
Jack looked nonplused. "He's a little old for a baby sitter, don't y'
think?"
"Only by your standards," Tok'ra pointed out and O'Neill nodded
dubiously.
"Sure," he shrugged. "Why not. I can keep an eye on him for you. That
it?"
"That is all I ask," Tok'ra acknowledged, "and to offer you my deepest
thanks."
At that, the light that was Tok'ra suddenly focused on O'Neill,
passing through him like the wind only to be gone an instant later as
if he'd never been.
Jack shuddered and glanced around the now empty room, looking
horrified as he grabbed his chest and felt down his torso. "Did I just
get slimed?!"
Daniel shook his head as he walked away, while Teal'c merely raised an
eyebrow and Carter smiled.
"Hey! It's not funny! That was weird!"
"Consider it an intergalactic hug," Daniel called over his shoulder.
"Nice! Kid's a brat, dad's a hugger," O'Neill sighed, finally giving
up on getting any sympathy out of his companions. "Okay, campers,
let's get a move on. I want the gear sorted and repacked. Daniel!" he
called after the archaeologist. "You stay here. Keep an eye on
Pierson," he ordered as the other man paused. "You're good at watching
dead things."
***
The sound of sliding metal roused Daniel from his reading and he
hurriedly stuffed Methos' journal back into the other man's pack.
Fascinating stuff his reflections on the past through modern eyes. The
sarcophagus opened and he heard a soft groan then moved to its side.
"How are you?" he asked softly. Methos looked around and tried to sit
up just as Daniel noticed how emaciated he was.
"I thought this thing was supposed to heal you?" Methos asked tiredly
when he was finally upright and could see where he was.
"It does," Daniel explained. "But I'm not sure it can do anything
about weight loss," he nodded at the Immortal's physique. "Or hair
loss."
"Mmmm," Methos grunted noncommittally, rubbing his smooth head as he
accepted Daniel's assistance and climbed out. "I feel awful," he
finally muttered, swaying on his feet.
"Sounds about right," Daniel agreed. "You look like dea-- Uhm, crap,"
he finally decided.
"No doubt I have Tok'ra to thank for that as well," he sighed,
allowing himself to be propped against the side of the sarcophagus as
Daniel went to fetch something for him to wear.
"You don't sound too happy," Daniel commented as he dug into the pack.
"The old man and I had a little talk while I was hanging around
waiting to get dumped. Bastard wouldn't share his power with me. Could
have gotten me out and healed in an eye blink. But no," Methos
grimaced. "I'm supposed to learn a lesson from all this. Something
about self-centered arrogance, I believe," he snorted in disgust.
Daniel suppressed a smile. "Parents are like that," he commiserated,
offering Methos the robe and slippers he'd hidden in his pack back on
Crete.
With a sigh Methos put them on. Good choice, he thought approvingly.
Comfortable comforting clothes. Always nice after a rotten day at
work. He didn't even want to think about the argument he'd had with
Tok'ra. Though, he admitted wryly, the Ancient had gotten him to
safety -- and healed -- even if it hadn't been all he'd hoped for.
"I take it he's gone again?" Methos asked as Daniel put an arm around
his shoulders and helped him walk.
"Yeah," Daniel nodded, grabbing the Immortal's pack. "But he did say
he liked the way you turned out."
Taken aback by the compliment, Methos thought about it a moment then
nodded. "Compared to what he has to work with now, I'm not surprised."
They made it to the corridor and from there down to the Stargate in
slow, easy steps which still left Methos tired.
"Welcome back from the dead!" O'Neill called as he saw them enter.
"Ready to go home, Captain?"
"More than ready," Methos acknowledged. "But can we?"
That, of course, had always been the question from the beginning. Just
knowing the right sequence and having enough power might not do it.
There had always been some doubt as to just how they'd ended up in the
exact time and place they'd needed to be to set things right. Was it
simply the extra energy caused by Ptahsennes' Quickening coupled with
the DHD being struck by debris which inadvertently added two more
addresses to the code? Or had there been something more involved?
Carter grinned. "I think we'll make it. Apparently, before he left,
Tok'ra did something to the controls. There's more energy in the gate
than I've ever seen and I can't tell where it's coming from."
Methos quirked one hairless brow at the Stargate. "Thanks, Dad!" he
called as everyone simply stared.
"My pleasure, son," the voice of Tok'ra sounded as the glyphs glowed
with each vibration. "After all, it was I who sent you here in the
first place."
"You did this to us?!" O'Neill asked, startled at the revelation.
"My apologies, Colonel," the Ancient intoned. "Though I as yet have
nothing to apologize for. But it seems to me, that knowing what was to
be, I would have made it my business to assure your world's survival."
"But you evolved," Daniel said softly. "Became part of the cosmos.
Free of all worldly concerns."
"Did I?" Tok'ra's voice held a smile. "Still, I am and always will be
Tok'ra. He who is against Ra. Perhaps I set myself one final task," he
admitted. "There is no other way you could have arrived here so
precipitously. The ninth chevron can be activated by anyone, but it
takes the will of an Ancient to bend the wormhole to its final
destination. And neither Methos, nor Ptahsennes could have managed it.
Of course," he added wryly. "There are a few bugs in the system, as
you've discovered in your travels. But these are minor glitches I did
not have time to correct. And no one but I, and now you, knows the
true secret of the ninth chevron."
"You built the Stargates?" Samantha asked, astonished.
"No, Major," he responded gently. "I merely developed the later models
for intergalactic travel. The final chevron was simply a foolish whim
of mine."
"Some whim," O'Neill muttered disgustedly.
"It has served its purpose," Tok'ra merely commented.
"Look, everyone," Methos finally interjected. "This is all very
interesting, but can we please just get back to the future?"
"Impatient as always," Tok'ra sighed.
"Oh, don't give me that!" Methos sneered. "The least you could have
done was grow my hair back!"
"It is a most distinguished visage," Teal'c nodded approvingly as
Methos rolled his eyes.
"Yeah, when I was hiding out as a Buddhist monk!"
"Hare, hare! Hare Krishna!" O'Neill sang under his breath, eliciting
giggles and snickers from Carter and Daniel while Methos sullenly
crossed his arms and frowned.
Tok'ra chuckled and the gate suddenly opened without warning. "Take
the boy home, Colonel. And remember your promise."
"Will do." O'Neill started to wave at the gate, then stopped abruptly
looking embarrassed.
"Uh, Jack," Daniel said as the others collected their things. "I think
there's something you should know."
O'Neill frowned. "Not now, Daniel."
"But, Jack!"
"I said not now!" he snapped, heading for the gate.
"But--"
"It can wait!" O'Neill insisted. "Now let's move!"
Daniel glanced back at the ship and sighed, following the others as
one by one they passed into the light until he stood alone before the
gate.
"He's going to be pissed, you know."
In the back of his mind he could hear Tok'ra laughing.
The gate glowed brightly as the Ancient seemed to smile. "I was
counting on it."
Chapter 42
"Receiving SG-1's transmission signal," the technician reported.
"Open the iris," General Hammond ordered and headed down to the gate
room.
The event horizon rippled slightly as first Major Carter and Teal'c
then O'Neill and Methos passed through. A moment later, Daniel stepped
onto the ramp and stared like the rest of them at the familiar gate
room.
Below, Hammond stood open mouthed, taking in the sight of his team.
"What the hell happened to you?!" he asked, dumbfounded.
The five looked at each other as if seeing themselves for the first
time in months. Carter, Daniel and O'Neill were a dusky shade of
bronze with hair and brows dyed black as coal. Hair which was far too
long to be remotely considered regulation. Beside them, Methos was
pale, thin and very hairless, dressed in a blue caftan robe with
matching slippers. Only Teal'c looked relatively normal. Though like
the others, his uniform appeared worn and a bit frayed at the edges.
"I certainly hope you have a good explanation for this, Colonel." the
general said, shaking his head slowly as they made their way down the
ramp.
"First," O'Neill said. "What day is it, sir?"
"What day?" Hammond looked stunned. "It's Friday."
"No, the date, sir." The general told him and O'Neill looked equally
baffled. "That means we haven't left yet," he said to Carter.
"Actually, sir, it means we just got back," she responded.
"Well, duh!"
"No, sir. I mean we just got back from our last mission. The one
before the concert. Before Egypt."
"What concert? What about Egypt?" the general wanted to know.
"Springsteen," Jack supplied. "Great show. We were on our way to
dinner, then you ordered us back to the base. There's a Goa'uld ship
out in the desert. We were sent to check it out. Or," he amended. "We
will be sent to check it out."
"No, we won't," Daniel interjected and everyone turned to him.
"What do you mean we won't?" O'Neill asked.
"What I kept trying to tell you back there," Daniel said. "We parked
in a construction zone."
"What?!"
"We landed near Aswan."
"Oh no!" Methos groaned. "The dam!"
"What dam?" O'Neill demanded. "There was no dam there."
"But there is now," Methos pointed out.
Daniel nodded. "Since the sixties that whole area's been underwater.
The Aswan dam is what keeps the Nile from flooding every year. So,
there's no ship for the satellites to spot and no mission to go on.
The end result. We're right back where we started."
O'Neill looked furious. "God damn it! Tok'ra!"
General Hammond cleared his throat. He wasn't sure what was going on.
This was supposed to have been a simple recon mission to a primitive
planet. Now they were back, looking as if they'd been gone for years
and babbling about Egypt, Goa'uld ships and the Tok'ra.
"All right, people, settle down. You," he pointed to Methos, who
looked ready to collapse, "obviously belong in the infirmary."
"Nah," O'Neill shook his head. "He's not radioactive anymore. A nice
nap, a few good meals and he'll be fine."
"Radioactive?!" The general exclaimed. "All right, that's it," he
ordered. "I want all of you checked out. Now!"
With grimaces and grumbles they headed for Dr. Fraiser's domain as
Hammond took a deep breath and sighed.
"Aspirin first," he muttered with a shake of his head. "I can already
tell this debriefing's going to be a doozy!"
Epilogue
One Month Later...
The locker room was empty, but for the members of SG-1. They'd taken
the leave they'd been given, which had been done separately -- agreed
upon by all in silent consensus. Two years living in too close
quarters might have made them friends, but even good friends needed a
break from each other. And now they were back. Together again and,
after their mandatory physical, ready to go back to work in the
morning.
Methos hid a smile as he watched the others dressing, once again at
ease in their surroundings. Those first few days back had been
difficult even for him. Reacquainting himself with all the modern
conveniences he'd missed had been an almost reverential experience. He
could only imagine what it must have been like for the rest of the
team.
From what he knew, Carter, who like the others had stripped her hair
back to its natural color and cut it short again, had spent some time
visiting with her father then returned to the SGC to work on her
beloved science projects. Teal'c had also gone to visit family. He'd
never said anything during the mission, but he must have missed his
son terribly. Daniel didn't have much family, but he'd made the rounds
of those he did have, spending the rest of his time writing up the
notes he'd made in Egypt and publishing what was considered a new and
groundbreaking monograph on the lost treasures of King Solomon.
He glanced at Jack and had to grin. By all accounts, the good colonel
had spent his month traveling. New York, LA, Chicago, even Las Vegas
had been on his itinerary. The most modern cities with the most modern
conveniences -- bright lights, hotels with 24 hour room service,
satellite TV and fast food deliveries. He'd finished off his grand
tour by spending almost every penny of the two years back pay they'd
all received on gadgets and high end electronics. A truly admirable
revel in Methos' opinion.
For himself, he'd gone first to London, recuperating alone in his
house while his hair grew back. Once he'd deemed it long enough, he'd
had it cut high and tight. A little too short for his liking, but it
seemed to amuse Jack. More importantly, it had horrified MacLeod once
he'd made his way to Paris. The poor Highlander seemed to think he'd
be sent to Basic Training -- as he assumed Methos had been -- once he
came up with enough names for that strike force he was still working
on. Of course, Methos had done nothing to disabuse him of this notion.
It was just too funny watching MacLeod watch him -- all the while
nervously fingering the silver clasp that held his long hair back.
Methos looked at his watch and sighed softly, recalling the other
thing he'd done while in Paris. According to the Watchers, Ramirez had
died in Scotland by the hand of the Kurgan. Connor MacLeod had
possession of his teacher's sword and the world went on the same as it
had before.
A great loss, Methos thought sadly as he put on his long coat. Tonight
should have been the night he was to meet his old friend. He would
still go to Bellinni's to celebrate the life of a good man, but it
would not be the same. Of course, if he had company...
"You guys hungry?" he suddenly asked as the others rose to leave.
"I could eat," O'Neill shrugged.
"What do say we all go to Bellinni's? Have that dinner we never got.
My treat."
"Sounds great," Carter grinned along with the others.
"Good," Methos smiled, feeling relieved.
"Why don't you guys go find Teal'c," O'Neill suggested. "We'll meet
you up top."
An hour later, they were being seated in the romantically lit if
slightly overdone art deco confines of the restaurant. A discreet
exchange of gratuities had gotten them a table on the balcony above
the main dining room -- usually reserved for couples, but the maitre
d' was willing to overlook that along with their lack of a
reservation.
"Nice," O'Neill nodded, opening his menu.
"Hey, guys," Daniel grinned. "They've got a pesto pasta with goat
cheese topping. Yum!"
Methos grimaced. "Did I ever mention that I loathe goat cheese?"
"More to the point," O'Neill commented sardonically. "It loathes you."
Methos cocked his head, looking confused. "What does that mean?"
Samantha looked uncomfortable, while O'Neill grinned and pulled a
small package from his jacket pocket. "I keep these handy for
emergencies," he said, tossing the item to Methos. "I think your
inability to get along with anything remotely resembling milk fat
qualifies."
He looked at the box and discovered it's contents, startled as he
realized O'Neill was correct. Great gods, Methos thought, flushing
with embarrassment. No wonder yak butter does me in every time. I'm
lactose intolerant!
"Thank you," he murmured, squinting to read the directions on the back
of the box in the dim light. He was just tearing open the package when
the sudden sense of a strong Immortal presence intruded on his
thoughts. His face went blank as he glanced down at the dining room
below and focused on the door. Then a second presence announced itself
and he leaned back, allowing the shadows to hide his pale reflection.
"What is it?" Jack asked tersely, seeing the tension in Methos' body.
The ancient Immortal suddenly leaned forward, hardly daring to believe
his eyes. "Ramirez!" he shouted, startling the other diners. And...
"Isn't that Ptahsennes?" Daniel asked excitedly.
Methos glanced at the boy and nodded then turned back to stare in
wonder at his old friends. "How in the world...?" he whispered,
shaking his head as the two Immortals waved, ignoring the Maitre d' to
make their own way to the upper level.
Methos rose as they reached their table, eagerly shaking hands with
Ramirez, who pulled him into a gentle hug. It was the same with
Ptahsennes, who augmented his greeting with a fine insult and a light
slap to the eldest Immortal's cheek.
"Why so surprised?" Ramirez asked quietly as a waitress fetched an
extra pair of chairs. "Did you not invite me?"
Behind them, O'Neill cleared his throat and Methos turned to see the
colonel's eyes staring daggers at him. Shit! he realized. I never did
mention that part of our conversation to Jack. Still, when in doubt,
he thought, play the gentleman and be a good host -- then hope like
hell for the best, Methos decided.
He turned to Ramirez to begin the introductions. "I'd like you to
meet--"
"I know these people," Ramirez murmured in amazement. "You," he
pointed to O'Neill. "You're the man who wouldn't let me take out the
trash."
"I'm beginning to rethink that issue," Jack's voice was icy with fury.
The Immortal smiled. "Juan Ramirez," he said, offering his hand, which
O'Neill briefly shook. "My companion," he gestured to the other
Egyptian, "is Peter Sennes." O'Neill nodded and, remembering his
manners, since only one Immortal was at fault here, introduced himself
and the rest of the team.
"I am truly astonished," Ramirez admitted, looking at their faces as
he and Ptahsennes joined Methos in taking their seats. "And most
interested to finally hear this explanation."
"First," Methos insisted as the rest of SG-1 stared at him coldly. "I
want to know how you survived the Kurgan. You're supposed to be dead,
you know."
Ramirez and Ptahsennes looked at the mortals then at each other and
shrugged. "He seems to be safe enough with them," Ramirez commented,
nodding to Methos. "I see no harm in their knowing."
"Agreed," Ptahsennes sighed.
"The Kurgan," Methos insisted.
"Yes, the Kurgan." Ramirez waved to the waitress and ordered wine. "We
fought as Heather MacLeod surely told her husband. And yes, I
remembered your warning, my friend. But I could not run and leave the
girl to that one's tender mercies. Not by choice, at any rate," he
amended sadly. "It was just as the beast swung to take my head that we
were both suddenly engulfed in the most amazing Quickening. It came
from neither of us, but was there all the same."
"Tok'ra!" Daniel interrupted and Ramirez nodded affably.
"Indeed, that is what this great being called itself. To the Kurgan,
and anyone watching I expect, it appeared to be a normal Quickening.
But of course, all things are in the eye of the beholder and we see
and believe what we wish. I lost my sword, but not my head as this
great mass of energy carried me off to Ptahsennes' home in Egypt. And
there I have remained until now at Tok'ra's request."
"He spoke to you?" Methos looked startled.
"I had a word with your father, yes," Ramirez smiled wickedly.
"Explained a few things, did he?" Methos grimaced wryly.
"A few," the Egyptian admitted. "By way of thanks for taking you in
hand."
Methos rolled his eyes disgustedly. "I do not need a baby sitter," he
muttered in annoyance.
"Which reminds me," O'Neill smiled with feigned pleasantness. "I think
it's time Captain Pierson and I had a little talk. Would you excuse
us? Gentlemen," he nodded to the Immortals as he rose, laying one
heavy hand on Methos shoulder as he led them toward the exit.
"Before you get all hot under the collar," Methos said hurriedly once
they were alone in one of the empty banquet halls attached to the
restaurant. "Just let me explain."
O'Neill crossed his arms as he found an empty barstool and took a
seat. "I'm already hot under the collar," he said flatly. "And I can
pretty much figure it out for myself, Pierson. You didn't think he'd
believe you without offering to someday explain."
"Well, yes," Methos answered reasonably. "He wouldn't have."
"Of course," Jack went on, deceptively mild. "That doesn't explain why
you didn't tell me the truth. All of it."
No, it didn't, but then Methos never was one for sharing information
he didn't think he had to. "I didn't see that it concerned you. I
mean, you wouldn't have even been here tonight if I'd thought Ramirez
was alive."
"I see," O'Neill nodded slowly. "So, you weren't thinking about what
you could do for the team by inviting us to dinner, but what you could
do to ease your conscience."
Methos winced a little, not liking the way O'Neill made that sound.
Still, brazen was always better, wasn't it?
"I don't have a conscience," he responded airily. "Gave it up for Lent
about a thousand years ago and haven't missed it since."
Jack smiled grimly. "You know, Pierson. I was gonna let you slide on
that last fuck up. I figured, 'Hey, he's been through enough. He's
learned his lesson.' Hell, you even apologized and told me I was
right. It needed five. But no, you would rather have suffered alone
than watch us die in agony. A deeply considerate gesture," O'Neill
nodded slowly. "Got me right," he touched his fist to his chest,
"here. And it almost worked."
"Look, Jack--"
"No, no, no," O'Neill waved a finger. "Don't interrupt, Captain. This
isn't a democracy, remember?"
Methos frowned, but held his silence.
"As I was saying, Captain," he went on, stressing the title. "You seem
to think you're a law unto yourself. That as long as it doesn't
involve us mortals, we don't have a right to know about it. And that's
all well and good. Keep your damn secrets," O'Neill said coolly. "But
this does involve us. More importantly, it involves matters of
national security which, if we hadn't been here, you would have, by
your own admission, had no qualms in discussing. Isn't that right?"
"They won't say anything," Methos insisted. "And as you've pointed
out, Immortals are good at keeping secrets. Besides, who would believe
them anyhow?"
O'Neill shook his head and sighed. "That's not the point -- and you
know it. Now, drop and give me fifty," he ordered coldly.
"What?!" Methos' eyes went wide.
"Your first fifty push ups," O'Neill explained as he stood, slowly
backing Methos against the bar.
"First fifty?" Methos asked, stalling for time since he had no
intention of doing any. "How many do you want?"
"Ten thousand seems about right."
"Ten thousand?!" Methos laughed. "Are you out of your mind?!"
O'Neill sighed and stepped away, nodding slowly. "Figured you'd say
that. Okay, Methos. You can go."
"Go?" Methos asked, confused.
"Yeah," O'Neill responded. "Go on. Go home. Go back to Nepal.
Wherever. In a couple of weeks Adam Pierson will get his release
papers."
Methos stared at O'Neill, not quite sure what was happening here,
except... "You're kicking me out?" he asked, quietly stunned. "Over
this? After all I've done?"
"You want more medals?" Jack inquired archly.
"No!" Methos shook his head angrily. "I want to know why!"
"You want to know why?" Jack asked, laughing softly. "Look, Methos.
I've tried everything with you. Protocol. Shouting. Little personal
chats -- which I hate, by the way. Nothing works. You still seem to
think that the world revolves around you and your Immortal buddies.
Well, here's a wake up call for y' pal. It doesn't! The only
difference between us is that you get lots older and you're tougher to
kill. I separate your head from your neck and you are just as dead as
I am."
"But I thought that's why you wanted me on the team," Methos said.
"Because I am Immortal."
"No," O'Neill shook his head. "I wanted you there because what I saw
were the makings of a damn fine soldier. A tough, brilliant, capable
man who knew how to fight. Knew how to kill and walk away without
needing anyone to hold his hand before or after. And yeah, a man who
knew how to keep a secret. I liked that. I needed that. But somewhere
between that temple and Delphi that man took a hike. Now, don't get me
wrong," O'Neill went on. "I like you, Methos. You're a good man. But
Adam Pierson knew how to follow orders -- mostly. Sure, he was
insubordinate. But he never once made me have to worry about the
consequences of his actions. You do. And I'm sorry, Methos, but I have
to draw the line somewhere. And I draw it at treason."
Methos' eyes widened in shock as the word reverberated in his mind. He
swallowed hard, realizing O'Neill was right. He hadn't even thought of
it that way. Telling Ramirez about the gate, about how they'd traveled
back in time was just... What? A little friendly explanation between
friends? Some amusing bit of anecdotal apocrypha to be brought up over
a glass of beer a few centuries later?
Methos bowed his head, sighing softly. "I'm sorry, Jack. I do
understand though," he nodded. "This isn't just about Immortals or
mortals. It's about both. It's about everything. And that makes it
more important than either."
"Yes, it does."
"And you're right about me," Methos agreed sadly. "I don't fit in. I'm
not sure I ever can. I'm an arrogant, self-centered bastard, who's
seen too much and done too little that would ever be considered good.
It makes me a poor candidate for Soldier of the Year if that's what
you're after. So," he sighed. "I'll go quietly. And I'll keep your
secrets. You tell Ramirez and Ptahsennes whatever you want. I can
disappear for a couple of centuries. Hopefully, by then, it won't
matter anymore."
"So that's it?" O'Neill asked. "You think you can just saunter out of
here and leave me to clean up your mess?"
Methos looked baffled. "But you want me to leave. You just kicked me
out!"
"No!" he insisted. "What I want is for you to start taking
responsibility for yourself. To start thinking of yourself as a human
being instead of just an Immortal. To join the rest of us in picking
up after ourselves. We make a mistake, we have to clean it up.
Immortals cause havoc for mortals and they run away. Sit it out for a
couple of centuries until it all blows over. Well, you can't. Because
whether you think you fit in, or whether you want to or not, you need
to start learning how. And I want you learn how to trust. Because even
if you don't trust me, at least trust that I have your best interests
in mind. More importantly, I want you to DROP AND GIVE ME FIFTY!"
Somewhere during O'Neill's lecture Methos felt his mouth fall open.
Maybe it was the accusation of cowardice, or maybe it was the bit
about trust. He didn't know and right now, as he stared in shock at
the carpet, he didn't think he'd ever figure it out.
Damn he's good! Methos thought, not quite remembering just how he'd
gotten from a standing position to one of lying prone on the floor.
And he sure as hell didn't want to know why some part of him started
doing push ups as soon O'Neill started counting. Thoughtless
obedience? From him? The master manipulator following orders? What had
O'Neill done to him?! The thought left him feeling vaguely frightened,
because this wasn't ever the way Methos behaved. And yet, it was also
oddly comforting, because it seemed that after all this time some part
of him was still capable of trusting.
As the count came to a finish Methos heard the order to recover and he
rose, staring hard at O'Neill. This one bore watching, he thought
soberly. If one so young could manage to teach him this many lessons
in so brief a time then it was obvious he'd become too complacent in
his life. And he hadn't survived this long without paying attention.
O'Neill had demanded his trust and his loyalty. Not because he felt
superior to Immortals, but because he accepted them as equals with an
equal stake in the fate of humanity. Just as he offered his trust and
his loyalty to everyone he chose to work with and expected the same in
return. An offer sincerely made. No strings attached. The only
question left was whether Methos was capable of accepting it.
O'Neill nodded slowly. "You're a good man, Pierson. I don't want to
lose you. And certainly not because you never learned to have faith in
anyone but yourself. I've cut you more slack than I've ever cut anyone
in my life. But there are some things I won't tolerate. Those two men
out there can screw the whole ball of wax. Whether they do or not is
immaterial. The fact that they could is what's important here."
Methos swallowed hard. What a tangled mess he'd gone and made here!
Say one word and he'd have to tell it all. Say nothing and they still
knew too much. And knowing Ramirez, the Egyptian would keep digging
for answers until he found them.
"Well, sir," he finally responded. "Perhaps we'll just have to recruit
them to the cause."
Jack's brows rose at the suggestion.
"Now, that's my minion!" O'Neill sighed with pleasure and a hint of
relief, throwing an arm around Methos' shoulder as he led the way back
into the crowded restaurant. "Always has a plan I can count on!"