Changing of The Guard 2 - The Ninth Chevron By Ecolea

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!"