The Romp of LeBrust

I Judea 34 A.D. The road to Damascus was rough and rock strewn but well traveled. Francois LeBrust had stayed several hundred feet behind his quarry and his small entourage to days end. He casually followed them into the dwelling of opportunity for the night, a modest inn nestled in the wind protected slope of a hill. The primitive interior was warm and the host gracious in a gruff sort of way. He settled into one of the stools and watched as the rotund innkeeper waddled in his direction. “What can I provide you as prelude to the long night?” asked the innkeeper speaking in Aramaic. “Our choices are meager but adequate to stave off hunger to those who undertake the arduous journey to Syria. You are—?” “I am called Ananias,” said LeBrust in pointed deception. He had picked the name out of the air on a previous occasion when encountering the natives and stuck with it. His affected solemnity, receding hairline, and scrubby beard seemed to fit his chosen pseudonym. “I would like some bread certainly, and if you have hot broth of mutton along with a suitable drink it will suffice until morning.” He surveyed the cramped room set aside for dining. In a corner unattended by his followers sat the object of his scrutiny, Saul of Tarsus. Of modest size and bearded, his stony countenance reflected his abject mission—the elimination of the followers of Jesus. LeBrust had not yet settled on a plan. The items of food were brought, and by the time LeBrust had consumed them Saul of Tarsus had retired. Rising early from the sleeping nook provided by the innkeeper, LeBrust sat alone in the eating room as no other pilgrims had yet appeared. “I would like some sustenance to carry me through the day,” said LeBrust. “Most certainly, I will get you some fruit, goat milk, and bread if you like,” said the innkeeper. “You are the first to rise, that is, with the exception the solemn bearded one who left with his company at first light.” “Oh”. . . Damn, the bastard is getting away from me, thought LeBrust. “Maybe I should be along myself. Please pack a small amount of your early morning fare, and I will go.” . . . . . . 1742 Rome 2289 A.D. Lark Zakraven, premier Scholar and Chief Archivist of the Rome based Ecumenical Council, looked up from the report as the page entered. “Monsignor First Scholar sir, Pope Wang of the True Church is here and requests and audience.” Lark sighed and motioned to the page. Pope Wang swept in babbling with enthusiastic incoherence. “They did it. They saw and recorded the truth as we have always known it. We must take it up from there, follow the disciples and attest to their travels, good deeds, and martyrdom.” Zakraven regarded Pope Wang with scarcely concealed amusement thinking, That’s not exactly what the report says. “If you are suggesting we push for another mission, I think we should wait,” said Zakraven. “The report I have is a compilation of that from all the parties involved which leaves a degree of ambiguity about what took place. The scientists have told us only what they saw and given us the videos of events recorded. Your Eminence and Sahaugly of the New Essenes seem to have your own take on the results.” “Exalted Father Sahaugly is doubt personified,” said Pope Wang. “He would question his own mother on where he came from as he plopped out of the womb.” “Be that as it may, our leverage with the America’s Government Science Institute the ITR’s parent is not without limits. Push them to much and they may send us and our generous support packing unless I can persuade them to broaden their view and embrace the demonstrated potential of historic exploration. They tend to steep themselves in the scientific details of the time travel phenomena and be less interested in its application. But give me some time. I will sound them out and your wishes may be realized in the course of further exploration. . . . . . IV Rome 65 A.D. After a moment the transient blackness was replaced by an almost blackness, only broken by faint vestiges light silhouetting the hills to the east. As their eyes adjusted, they became aware of a forest of flickers in the valley below—torches bringing small islets of luminance to the ancient city of Rome. A breeze pushed the cloud scattered sky into changing patterns, momentarily eclipsing then revealing the crystalline star field. “Bare as bones,” muttered Lila as she inspected the landscape. “Not unlike our arrival in the first mission, and good cover for us,” said Brant. “The way straight downward here is too steep,” said Rajulk. “Over there is a path which runs parallel to the Tiber toward the where the future Vatican will be. When we reach the bottom we can veer right and find some place to cross the river. Things should be stirring by the time we get there.” “I agree, best.” said Marcus in English and continuing in Latin. “I was garrisoned here for training but did not familiarize myself with all the approaches to the city.” “We must watch the approach because even in ancient Rome there are underprivileged and bad neighborhoods—slums,” cautioned Zakraven with a slow take at the enigmatic Marcus. “Emperor Augustus created a police force to patrol the city, but now during Nero’s reign the poor areas are probably still untamed. Records indicate that the aristocracy never went there anyway, so for them it was no problem. But the ghettos crop up as islands in the magnificence of Rome itself, so it is possible for the unfamiliar to blunder into one.” “Noted,” said Brant with a grunt from Marcus indicating he understood and agreed with most of Zakraven’s appraisal. “If we follow Rajulk’s suggestion, we should be close to the Tiber when we get off this hill. The Forum should be only a short distance from the far bank.” The group made their way down the rough pathway and emerged a few hundred yards from the river. In their passage the increasing light began to reveal details of the landscape, giving to those familiar with modern Rome a compendium of disconcerting anomalies. As they moved forward, a quick intake of breath from Zakraven signaled it was his turn to be unruffled. “It looks like a river in a pastoral scene. See there, the trees extend down to the shore and there are fishermen scattered about. We are so used to the ramparts in our era built to tame the floods and the winding streets which snake along the river atop them. We forget it was once like this.” “It’s not the Mississippi, but we’ll still need a boat to cross,” said Lila. “There are a number tied up but no one seems—” “That guy over there hovering over one of them, let’s give him a try,” said Rajulk “Sir, would you be so kind as to aid us in crossing the river?” said Rajulk in Latin. The scruffy boatman appraised the group with their new pristine garments and decided he had chanced on a good thing. “The boat will hold four including myself as oarsman. For 100 denarii I can ferry you across in two trips.” “That’s outra—” sputtered Marcus in its Vulgar Latin equivalent lost in the linguistic jungle of antiquity and cut short by Rajulk to the amusement of the others. “Twenty five and not a cent more,” said Rajulk knowing it was m