“What the hell are you doing to me?” she whispered. Her voice was low and hoarse and he could tell her throat hurt. She sounded confused, uncertain.
“Drink,” he ordered, and pushed the straws into her mouth. “Artie, help her.”
But, her AI—
“Will lead, follow or get the hell out of the way. Do it. Now.”
Tiamat tried to turn her head away, then drew up suddenly, as Artie pulled her diaphragm and tightened her throat muscles. Beer filled her mouth and dribbled down her lips and neck. She gagged. Martin kept her head forced down on the straws with one hand. She struggled but was too weak to get away from him.
“More,” he ordered, and tilted the jar with his other hand. “Or Artie will help you again.”
Tiamat closed her eyes, and forced herself to drink more.
Enough, Artie said. We don’t want her to get diarrhea.
Martin eased the straws out of Tiamat’s mouth, laid her down on the bed. He stripped her naked, quickly and efficiently and tossed her wet clothes next to the fire. He dried her off and tucked her under a heavy bearskin blanket.
“Poppy juice?”
Just a bit, Artie agreed, grudgingly. It will help with the muscle pain.
Martin reached across the bed for another jar, opened it, scooped out a thin, white oil. He felt Tiamat shiver again. He shook her gently until her eyes opened, blearily.
“Open up,” Martin ordered Tiamat.
“No more, please…”
“Shut up. This is something different.”
She opened her mouth. Martin dabbed her lips with poppy paste.
“Lick it off.”
She licked her lips in tiny, little jerks, as if she fell asleep between each move. Or as if she was too weak to do any more each time.
“Whatever it was you made me drink, it smelled terrible,” she said, in a low, cracked, feverish, voice.
“Not worried about that,” Martin said. “How did it taste?”
“Not bad,” she admitted. “Sweet. Fizzy. A little metallic. I think I’m catching a buzz.”
“The buzz is the beer and the opium. The metallic means you got a good dose of the right stuff. Go to sleep.”
Tiamat nodded, her eyes half closed. Her head turned slightly to the side. She began to whisper to herself, the words slurred. Something sounded familiar. Martin leaned forward to listen, then leaned back and looked thoughtful.
What’s wrong?
“It’s a bedtime prayer. The kind you teach a child to say every night, before they go to sleep.”
And… what’s wrong with that?
“Amplify.”
“… Angele Dei, qui custos es mei, Me tibi comissum pietate superna; Hodie, Hac nocte illumina, custodi, rege, et guberna. Amen.”
That’s Latin. A Christian prayer in Latin.
“Yep.”
Carthage destroys Rome in all of the timelines we’ve found here. Long before Christianity. That prayer does not exist here. That prayer will never exist here, anytime or anywhen.
“Yep.”
Now, isn’t that special? Artie asked thoughtfully. Our little Kehin spy seems to be a leaker…
The next day, the rain was gone.
Martin sat outside, in his workroom. The hut door was open. He saw Tiamat inside. She breathed slowly, but steadily, the blanket pushed aside.
“Used the handle on her yet?” Martin asked.
Yes.
“And?”
Her uncertainty is greatly reduced, Artie said.
“She was supposed to die last night.”
Maybe, Artie admitted. She still has some uncertainty. Not much new data yet, but her line is starting to trend up.
“How long until she’s a nexus again?”
Five months? Six months? Can’t be certain.
“Can we use her?”
Not if she’s dead, Artie warned. She’s still sick.
Martin stood, headed for the hut.
“Then we better keep her alive. I’m getting tired of this place.”
Martin sat in the hut. He used a piece of antler to pressure flake the new knife, to sharpen the edge. The handle was now wrapped in leather and decorated on both sides. The priest only charged one arrow head for the blessing.
“You’re good at that.”
“Thanks,” Martin said. He did not look down at her. Instead, he held up the knife into a shaft of sunlight that fell through the vent opening in the roof. He squinted at the edge and turned the knife back and forth. Sunlight reflected off the shiny grey-black blade and danced on the inside walls of the hut. Satisfied, he put the knife down and turned to face her.
“Lots of practice?” she asked.
“Years.”
“How many years?” Tiamat asked.
“That’s classified,” Martin said slowly. “Perhaps.”
Tiamat studied his face. She tried to sit up, fell back, tried again and managed to prop herself on one elbow. She felt weak and sore and drawn out. She glanced over at the beer jar. Martin passed her the jar, a strip of beef jerky, and a fresh straw.
Another couple of days, Artie said, in silent. Just to be safe. She’s probably cured now, but just to be safe.
“Question time,” Martin said. He kept his hand on the knife.
“All right.”
“What is your real name? I know it’s not Tiamat, so don’t try that on me.”
“I talked while I was sick.”
You babbled like a toddler with her favorite doll, Artie said. He did not bother with silent mode.
Tiamat sat quiet for a long moment. Finally she nodded to herself and looked up at Martin.
“Est nomen meum Rachel.”
My name is Rachel, Artie said, satisfied, in silent. Latin combined with a Hebrew name. Damned certain she’s not from here. Called it.
“You ready?” Martin asked, in silent.
I still think it’s too risky, Artie fretted.
“You have a better idea?”
Silence. Stretched out to a pause. Rachel studied Martin and the empty space over his shoulder.
No, Artie said regretfully. I don’t like it one damned bit. But we need help. Go for it.
“And my full name is Martin,” Martin said to Rachel.
“Martinus,” Rachel said, thoughtfully. “Roman. Not a popular name choice in Carthage.”
Martin said nothing and waited.
“Why am I alive?” Rachel asked.
“Plague bacillus,” Martin said, and pointed to the beer jar in her hand, “responds very well to tetracycline.”
She looked at the jars, then up at Martin.
“You’re not just brewing beer. You’re culturing antibiotics.”
Martin shrugged.
“It grows in the beer if you start with the right grain harvested with the right soil fungi. And they like a beer buzz here as much as they did when I was in school. It brings them back to me after they go on a hunt or out to gather. People talk when they’re all together and a little drunk. I learn things and, hell, I can’t be everywhere, all the time. Think of it as a force multiplier.”
And if we go to all the trouble of grooming the locals, we want to keep them alive. It’s a nasty world out there. Lots of ways to catch an infection. So when our special people leave us, they always take some of our special beer, Artie added.
“Son of a bitch,” Rachel said.
“Which brings us back to you,” Martin said smoothly. “Why did something like the plague bite you? Where’s your artie?”