The Diary Of Alexander

[VladJunior]

I am about 180 pages into this work, which is about a third of the way through my outline. I would like to get some feedback on pacing, character development and plot so far. I hope you enjoy it. It has been fun to write so far.

Prologue
East of Modern Day Mosul, Iraq, October 1, 331 BCE
Winning is all he ever knew. Yet here was physical proof that he would fail. At the height of his power and influence it would all come crashing down. Would he die violently? Betrayed by his faithful? Defeated on the field of battle? It didn’t say. But he knew that whatever the means, the outcome was already pre-determined. In fact, if the priest’s declarations concerning the tablet were to be believed, his fate was sealed over a century before his father was born.
“You are certain this was what the priest described? This was the proof he said we would find?”
“Yes, my lord. He identified it by description and location. The king left all of his valuables behind when he fled the battlefield. His entire treasure is within this tent. The tablet is the only one of its kind among the items we found.”
He knew his personal scribe, Callisthenes, would be efficient and thorough. That much was expected and he had never been let down before. It was the one he had been looking for, ever since Egypt. Callisthenes’ statement was enough to settle the authenticity of the tablet. But what to do about it?
He was a master of exploiting men. Some said he was a god; a genius at finding a man’s weakness and turning it against him. He didn’t have such a high opinion of his own abilities, having known true genius in his teacher, Callisthenes’ uncle. Yes, the gods protected him and rewarded the risks he took on the battlefield. Divinely inspired greatness owes its allegiance to the gods who grant success, and not the man who wields the power of divinity. His successes were obvious to the whole world, but his means were less known.
The light from Callisthenes’ torch bounced off the dull, green metal, casting shadows on the chests of gold and silver that contained the king’s wealth. He looked at the tablet and bent to examine it more closely. It did not appear to be as intimidating as what it portended. It was only a single square of copper after all. Not much smaller than his shield. Covering its face were etched lines in strange patterns, like tallies on one of his accountant’s records itemizing the number of horses he owned.
“Such a strange language. Can it even be deciphered accurately?”
“Its translation is in little doubt, my lord. I confirmed it personally with the king’s chief priest, as well as the priest from the Hebrew temple.” Callisthenes turned to hand him a parchment scroll with the translation on it, the ink having only recently been dried. His scribe had spent the last few days verifying the existence of this supposed treasure. Callisthenes only returned to the army a few hours before the final battle began. Yet, upon return, Callisthenes knew where to search for the sign foretold by that witch in Egypt; the one woman in the world whose words he feared as much, if not more, than those from Delphi.
He glanced around the room before settling his eyes on the tablet again. Who would have thought that a king would want to keep such a visible reminder of his own demise so close to his person? Would the omens portended in the tablet derail his own empire, even before he had a chance to see it cemented in the annals of time?
He preferred to think that the gods who protected him would see him finish the conquest of the world. But here was an unknown god who proclaimed his death centuries before it would happen. Long before he even thought of setting foot in this cursed, arid land. He had just defeated the most powerful man in the world. But how did one defeat a god?
Rising and taking the scroll with an outstretched hand, he addressed Callisthenes, “Secure the tablet. Transport it to my city on the coast. Make sure it remains concealed and that no one discovers its existence. If it becomes known to the men what this tablet says, I fear for the army’s morale.”
“I understand, my lord. It will be delivered to the city as you require. What shall I do with it once there?”
“Hide it. Someplace it will rot until the end of time.”
“Forgive me, your grace, but why not simply melt it down?”
“It was written by a god who can see the future. Do you think he couldn’t see that we would try to destroy it? What might happen to us if we attempt such profanity? No. Hide it for now. When we return, I will decide how to deal with the tablet itself. Once you have secured it, return to me. Speak to no one of this.”
“It will be done as you require.”
Alexander of Macedonia, king of the Greeks, and soon the whole world, stepped from the tent and walked back towards the battlefield of Gaugamela. The last vestiges of his victory over the Persian king, Darius, were clear before his eyes. His banners flew over the field of sand, dirt and rock as signs of his domination. Only a few hours had been needed to reduce the once mighty Persian army to dust. A sea of thousands of fighting men reduced to the dead or dying. Wounded soldiers groaned in pain, Greek and Persian alike, wallowing in their own blood and that of their enemies. His men continued to scan the field, aiding his wounded and ending any Persians who still drew breath.
“Such a glorious scene,” he thought. “A day of victory.”
It should have been his greatest moment. Alexander turned aside from his survey of the field to address his three field generals and to take reports. He should have felt victorious, the revelation of his victory so fresh. Instead, he felt the weight of the world bearing down on him as though the hand of this unknown god had stretched forth to snatch his glory and life from him.
“My glory will never dim. Let this unknown god do his best. My gods are more powerful.” He thought. “I will not be defeated by scratches on a copper plate.” And dropping the scroll with the translation into one of the many fire pits dotting the battlefield, he set his path towards the task at hand; securing the rest of the Persian Empire and taking his place as the “King of Kings.”
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Jerusalem, Israel, August 21, 2014 CE
Greybeard took another pull on his cigarette as the midday traffic slowly ebbed by the Jaffa gate. The late summer sun made it a pleasant day in Jerusalem. And it was about to get a whole lot better for Greybeard. He had been casually waiting for over an hour for the man to appear, but so far,… nothing. He was starting to lose his edge, so he had lit a cigarette. Waiting for a mark to appear could be dull, boring work, right up to the moment when you spot your man; which is precisely what happened a minute ago when his target had made an appearance by getting out of a taxi in front of the pedestrian entrance. Praise be to Allah, his plans were now in motion.
Smashing out the remaining embers of his cigarette underneath the sole of his Italian leather loafers, Greybeard started walking up the gentle slope of The Greek Patriarchate Street into the heart of the old city. Thirty feet in front of Greybeard was an American. He was short, with brown hair and brown eyes,… indistinguishable from most of the other foreigners meandering up the sidewalk.
Although the man looked like just another tourist with his floppy hat, Ikon camera dangling from his neck, and “I heart Israel” shirt, Greybeard had solid information from his employer that this gentleman was a CIA operative working in tandem with the Mossad. That in itself was a rarity these days, given the behind the scenes tensions between the two nations and their respective intelligence communities. Apparently this agent was carrying some sensitive data on the digital storage of the camera he was carrying. Greybeard’s employer had let slip in their briefing that the information had to do with a top secret archaeological expedition somewhere near Alexandria, Egypt. Both the CIA and Mossad had an archaeological division that dealt with the theft and smuggling of antiquities. They worked in tandem with Interpol sometimes, except when the situation involved national security, as this one surely did, otherwise Greybeard never would have been called to intervene.
His job was to trail the man and then corral him into a specific location. His employer would deal with procuring the device and whatever it had on it. The information on the camera could be photos, documents, or other electronic data relating to the specific location of the dig site. Or it could just be a progress report on their findings. Greybeard didn’t care. He just did what he was hired to do.
His mark turned north towards the Christian quadrant and the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. Greybeard knew where he was going. That information had been supplied. All Greybeard needed to do was to “redirect” the “tourist” down a certain side street to a specific bottleneck between two narrow walls. Whatever happened when the man reached that point was none of Greybeard’s business. In fact, better that he not know about it, just in case.
Greybeard closed to twenty feet, stopped, and turned into a shop owned by a friend, Raul. He immediately started to speak as though he intended to stop in for a chat. The “tourist” had paused for a split second to see if he was being followed. This man was really good, because Greybeard almost missed it. The slight hesitation, the shifting of his camera back towards Greybeard,… it could have all gone wrong in a single moment. Instead, he prayed the man kept walking as he discussed the finer points of last night’s football match involving Raul’s favorite team, Real Madrid.
Greybeard’s smooth transition seemed to work, as the mark resumed his course without any indication of anxiety. Mentally, Greybeard breathed a sigh of relief. Losing the mark or causing him to panic would be a disaster that would not end well for Greybeard.
Raul was pleasant and knew the drill. They spoke about the amazing goal Messi had scored on a set piece. It was an incredible shot, to be sure, but Greybeard really hated football. The only thing that got his juices going was the real game,… the one in the shadows.
Greybeard kept the conversation going just long enough to let the man gain a comfortable lead without losing him.
“_____, Raul, see you tomorrow night for dinner.”
“_____, Abdullah, ______.”
None of his friends knew him as Greybeard. That was his professional name; for obvious reasons he couldn’t use his real name, or any of his other aliases. Besides, Greybeard was descriptive enough, if not entirely accurate. It was wishful thinking that he would live long enough in this world and profession to see grey in his beard. One could pray, though, and Greybeard did, five times a day.
The American turned right up a side street lined with spice vendors and trinkets of all kinds. The sort of curios that were cheaply made and cheaply sold by a people whose lives were valued as cheaply by the Israeli’s as their wares. Greybeard had higher hopes for such as these, but his wasn’t a philanthropic organization. He wasn’t about to let his personal feelings interfere with his real mission.
Greybeard pulled over behind a cart with jewelry boxes on it and checked his watch. He took out a disposable cell phone and sent a text to a pre-determined number. “30 secs, floppy hat.”
Soon, his cousin would execute the diversion that they needed to hustle the American into the next alley that led to the choke point. Then his employer…
Crash! A large cart full of candles toppled over fifty feet in front of Greybeard and ten feet in front of the American, causing him to pause in the middle of the street, as the candles filled the path from wall to wall, broken glass strewn across the street.
Greybeard observed the man over the top of a jewelry box he had picked up to look over. He thought for a second that the American might push his way through the congestion and debris, until he saw his cousin pour out of a side shop and start arguing with the cart owner. That made the American look around for other options, as the argument attracted opinions from several other store owners and onlookers. It became a full on shouting match. With the mass of bodies and glass blocking the street, the American had to go back, or… he could take the convenient alley that led west from the street to the parallel alley behind the shop on the left. Greybeard’s cousin had prepared the alley to be congested on the south end so that the man would have to take a right after slipping through. The next street over would lead him straight to Greybeard’s employer. Of course, the American was oblivious to any of this and did exactly what Greybeard expected, he improvised and turned to enter the side alley.
Greybeard waited two minutes to make sure that the man didn’t double back. Chime! He glanced at his phone, read the text, and then lit a cigarette. Suddenly, the commotion in the street died down, and the shop owners started picking up the debris. Greybeard’s cousin was nowhere to be seen. It was time to leave.
He turned around and headed back toward the Jaffa gate where his car was parked. He dropped the cell phone into a trash bin along the way, and finished his cigarette. In a matter of minutes he was driving away, thinking about the American, the camera that now belonged to his employer, and the fact that he was one day closer to earning that grey beard. And his employer was one step closer to whatever it was he was seeking in the City of Alexander.
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Rome, Italy, August 22, 2014 CE
Two flights of fifty steps took Father Federico Barone to the precipice of the most famous cathedral in the world. Saint Peter’s Basilica was enormous in its appearance, prestige, and power to overwhelm any visitor. Father Barone had been inside the Basilica on many occasions during the past fifteen years of his service to the church, and every time he entered it was like walking into the courts of God Himself. It was easy to be awed by the grandeur of the five story ceiling and arches; the powerful art displays contained in each side vestibule; and of course the central bronze altar with its four posts twisting to heaven itself as though every prayer laid at the feet of the altar were transmitted directly to the feet of Christ. Most times he entered St. Peter’s he had to pause to keep from being overwhelmed by the sheer spiritual power of the place. Today, however, he felt none of this; only a sense of fear for what was coming his way.
Father Barone hurried past the lines of tourists and tour guides looking at Michelangelo's Pieta and moved around a roped off area to the left of the altar. He scooted into a pew set within the left chamber of the cross shaped Basilica, where he promptly fell to his knees and bowed his head. Today was a day for fasting and prayer, not for being awed by the physical manifestation of the Lord’s glory and wealth, but for seeking His wisdom and, if by grace, His mercy and intervention.
Clutched in his hand, Father Barone held the most disturbing news he had ever received: an assignment given to him by the Pontiff himself. That very morning, handed down to him through the chain of command within the office of the Secretary of State, he had received a summons to attend to the Pope during the Pontiff’s personal prayers and breakfast. An unusual request, as Father Barone’s position within the clergy was so far beneath the Pope in terms of rank that it was like the President summoning the janitor to a meeting in the Oval office. But Barone had special skills that he had acquired before joining the clergy, when he had been a budding convert to Christianity. Apparently, the Pontiff was aware of those skills.
Upon receiving Father Barone in his chambers, however, his holiness had quickly dispensed with formality and taken measures to ensure that only he, Father Barone, and the Secretary of State were present in the chambers before entrusting Father Barone with the letter he now held folded and crumpled in his prayerful hands. After handing him the letter, the Holy See had told him a story that was very hard to believe and, in fact he would not have believed it had it come from another source but the Holy Father. At the end of this story telling, Father Barone had been given an assignment directly from the Secretary of State and blessed by the Pope: to do whatever it takes to stop what was written in the letter from happening.
“You must use your skills, and whatever other resources Christ sends you, to keep the tablet from being retrieved or destroyed. Our friends inside the American government tell us that we have until Christmas. They are planning something big; a display to rival 9/11.” The Secretary of State wouldn’t elaborate more on the timeline, or what the ‘display’ was thought to be, but Father Barone didn’t need the information to know that it was vital that he retrieve the item for the church before it fell into the wrong hands.
It was a daunting task; an impossible task. It would take a miracle to accomplish and many lives were at stake, perhaps entire nations. He had asked for a team of specialists; a veritable army of the church to aid in this assignment. His holiness had said that the assignment was his and his alone.
And so he knelt before the only hope of achieving success and for preventing evil from triumphing in this most dangerous affair: the throne of the only living god, Christ the Lord. With shaking hands and trembling lips, he prayed quietly to himself, “Lord Christ above, who watches over the earth and everything in it, hear now your servant who humbly seeks your wisdom and grace. I confess my fear and sin to you. I am not strong enough or brave enough to face the enemy. I am a man of weak heart and little skill. Yet I have been given a task that requires much courage and guile to accomplish. You know the consequences if the enemy prevails. Many will die, and nations may go to war. There will be poverty, death and hopelessness spread to the four corners of the world. I beseech you to stop it before it happens. Use me for good and give me grace and mercy to accomplish your will in this matter. Keep my eyes focused on you and not on the wind and waves. But let me walk on water and calm the storms to accomplish this task. Give me power to overcome those who seek to destroy and discourage and through me bring love, joy and peace to those whom you wish to bless. In the name of the Father, and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost, Amen.”
Having finished his brief verbal supplication, Barone looked up at the letter now crushed in his hands. Once again he unfolded it and glanced briefly at its small hand written contents. It was a letter written in Latin from one of the church’s priests in Cairo, Egypt. Barone had no trouble translating its message into Italian. Only one line of text was necessary to contain the message… “They seek to reveal the truth behind the prophecy of Alexander and they are close to discovering where it lies.”
Father Barone, an agent of the Vatican who specialized in tracking down and securing church relics, documents, and artwork was a priest whose flock consisted of tangible things and not people. He had a dual PhD in history and art history from the University of Florence. He was no James Bond. All he possessed was a passion for the church and a love for history,… and maybe a few skills outside of the profane and on a more spiritual dimension. But even he could tell that this assignment was more suitable for the clandestine arm of the Vatican than for one of its chief curators.
And yet, Father Barone was a man of faith. If his holiness gave him the task, it was for a reason. And so it was that the church looked to him to prevent the discovery and possible retrieval of one of the most significant items in the history of Christianity. In fact, it was significant to Judaism and Islam as well, although in different ways; the former seeking its validation and the latter its destruction.
Until now Father Barone had believed the item to be a legend; a story invented to counter skeptics who sought to discredit the church. Now he knew that it was real and should it fall into the wrong hands, war would most certainly be the result. The Middle East, and especially Israel, would burn. He could not stop it alone. So he continued to pray silently seeking the aid of the creator of all living things, and the power to intervene in the circumstances for the glory of the one who had saved him. He felt so small compared to the task. But he had been told he was chosen for a purpose, and that the Lord would send him helpers to handle the task on the ground. After all, the Holy Father had said to him, “if the Lord be for us, then who can stand against us? And did Elijah need a team of priests or Gideon an army of soldiers to defeat the enemy? They stood up alone or outnumbered and answered the call of the Lord. So with you. You will find those whom the Lord raises up through faith to assist you in stopping this evil from occurring. And in so doing the weak shall be made strong.”
Father Barone had much to do to prepare for his task and little time to do it. And so he sat and prayed for the rest of the day. And the crowds continued to pour into the Basilica and mill about with their families and friends, taking in the splendor of the Lord’s church. They were all long gone when he rose from his pew and left to begin the most important, and most difficult, assignment of his life.

[VladJunior]

Chapter 1 First Impressions

Chapter 1
“First Impressions”
“But the Lord said to Samuel, ‘Do not look at his appearance or at the height of his stature, because I have rejected him; for God sees not as man sees, for man looks at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart.’” – 1 Samuel 16:9
A bright sun and sweltering heat greeted Thomas to his first day of college. Norman, Oklahoma, wasn't exactly where he thought he would end up going to school but the last few months had been a whirlwind that landed him out of the Army and into a classroom. He took it all in as he opened the lift-gate to his late-model Ford Explorer and started to unload his stuff.
Life seemed never to stop pouring over him in large waves. Like an unceasing storm brewing on the horizon that threatened to turn his life upside down and spill him into the chaos of an ocean of grief. This particular storm had landed him at the University of Oklahoma; a place so far from home that he knew nobody who had ever gone to school there, let alone resided in the state. Three months ago, all he knew about OU was that its fans were crazy about their football team, and considering its success, maybe they had a right to be. But he wasn't here to play football.
"Heads up!"
Thomas ducked under his lift-gate as a Frisbee flew over his SUV. Hardened instincts caused him to look around and take cover for longer than a typical college freshman would have. Except Thomas wasn't a typical college freshman. Four years of service in Army Intelligence had turned him into a trained killer, one with special skills designed to infiltrate and eliminate the most dangerous enemies of the United States. But that life, that job, and that purpose had ended abruptly. It was time to move on to a ‘normal’ life.
Thomas pressed his shades up the bridge of his nose as he watched a couple of teenagers saunter across the sidewalk to collect the errant Frisbee. He was used to being around teenagers. Most of the men in his first combat unit had been 18-20 year olds. They always seemed to exude the same self-confidence and air of invincibility, as if they couldn’t be bothered with the harsh realities of the world. Had he ever been that young? He knew that he was only a few years older than the Frisbee players but it felt like decades, an eternity.
He grabbed his duffel over one shoulder and his backpack over the other. Closing the back of his truck he walked towards the four story building right in front of his parking space. He had already checked in at registration and obtained his room assignment and key. Because he had registered so late, the Honors dorm, formally David L. Boren Hall, didn't have any single rooms, so he had been assigned a roommate. The Resident Advisor had laughed out loud when she handed over the paperwork to him, as though there was some kind of hidden joke. Thomas wondered what the guy would be like. He didn't have a chance to contact his assigned roomy before moving from Indiana. In fact, he could barely remember the guy's name. Hopefully, Thomas’ experiences in bunking with guys in the military would smooth his transition to college life.
As he opened the door to the dorm, he stepped into chaos. Moms and dads fretted over freshmen moving their trunks, suitcases, odds and ends into the building. The upperclassmen did their best to avoid the long lines of slowly plodding groups of freshmen and families going up and down the winding stairs that dominated the middle of the building. A twisting square that seemed like a giant cork screw, the stairwell led the excited and anxious teenagers to their community-style dorm rooms. Some older students mixed in with the crowd and attempted to direct traffic.
"Hi! Can I help you find your sibling!?"
Thomas turned to his left and found himself standing next to a short girl with dark hair, wearing a pair of those retro glasses that always reminded him of the hippie 60s.
"Excuse me? My sibling?" Thomas asked, while hiding a smile.
"Yes. I figured that you were helping your younger brother move in from the looks of the bags on your shoulder. If you tell me his name I can maybe help you find him. I mean, you look like you could use some help!" The girl talked so fast, Thomas had to pause a moment to make sure he understood what she had said. Judging by her nasal accent, she wasn’t from around here either; Minnesota, maybe? She looked like an event coordinator with a clipboard tucked in her left elbow with a list of names and room numbers. She even had an official looking t-shirt on; Crimson with a white OU Weekend emblem on the front.
"I don't have any siblings," said Thomas. "But if you could tell me which wing has room 324, I would appreciate it."
The official helper pointed to the west side of the building and said, "third floor on that side." She frowned and eyed Thomas a little more carefully. "What do you want with 324? Is he in trouble? Wouldn't surprise me, the little prick."
Thomas didn't know how to take her remark so he just smiled and said "thanks!" He started up the stairs doing his best to blend into the slow moving line of people trying to get their things settled for the semester.
At the third floor he stepped up to the landing and turned left to walk down the west wing. The corridor didn't look anything like the house in DC bearing a similar description. The hall was tight, maybe six feet across, with a bathroom on the right side and four dorms on each side farther down. Painted a muted grey, the walls seemed to fit better in a sterile office building; “Or maybe a prison,” thought Thomas. It looked like 324 was all the way down the hall, near the emergency stairs.
Thomas walked to the door and thought about knocking. Instead, he set his bag down and unslung his backpack. Digging into the front pocket he found his key. Without any further ado he unlocked and opened the door to his home for the next nine months.
Thomas’ first impression of his new abode was “Holy crap! I just signed up for jail time!” The room, described in his application materials as “cozy” did not exactly live up to that standard. It looked more like a small closet than a dorm room. From the entrance, he peered into an 8 x 16 foot tiled-floor ‘cell’ with only two small rectangular windows on the far corners of the opposite wall. On either side of him was a metal-framed twin bed that ran from the doorway to the end walls. Next to each bed was a small wooden desk and chair. Above the desks, extending from just in front of the window to the wall over the beds, were similarly stained, wooden bookshelves with little cubbies about one foot square. Directly in front of him was a small end table with a 1980s style telephone plugged into the wall. On either side of the telephone were sliding closet doors made of cheap laminated wood.
Thomas stepped into the room and threw his duffel and backpack on the bed to his right. The left one already had sheets on it; Star Wars designs with a large Darth Maul glaring up at him from the middle of the comforter. His roommate was not present, but there were several indications that he had been living in the room for longer than the orientation weekend. There was a pile of fast food take-out bags and cups brimming over the trash can under the end table. In the left-hand corner of the room, under the window, was a mini-fridge humming away with the front side covered in magnets for what appeared to be every pizza place in town that delivered to the dorms. On the desk sat several volumes of engineering books, mostly piled up, but one that was cracked open to a page in the middle of the text. There were a couple of cans of Dr. Pepper strewn about the room, including a few on his own desk that appeared to be only half-empty. The left closet door was partially open, revealing a pile of dirty laundry, some of which carried a not-so pleasant odor into the room that was only countered slightly by the air freshener that sat atop the built in dresser inside the closet.
Thomas moved the Dr. Pepper cans to the trash can, and then moved his backpack to the top of his desk. Unzipping the main compartment, he took out his laptop and plugged it into the Cat 5 cable coming from the Ethernet connection on the wall behind the desk. He booted up the laptop and set it down on the desk, while he turned to unpack his clothes from the duffel.
As he pulled out a bunch of athletic socks, a wiry kid with glasses and shaggy brown hair stepped into the room. He was yelling to someone down the hall as he entered, “You still owe me from last semester! Why do I have to keep reminding…” He stopped mid-sentence as he took in the fact that Thomas was in the room and unpacking his things. After a brief glance of him up and down, as well as at his duffel bag, the newcomer said, “Ah crap! She really wasn’t kidding, was she!? They gave me universal soldier for a roommate!”
Thomas reached out to offer his hand for an introductory handshake and said, “I’m Thomas. You must be Terrence.”
The wiry kid just frowned at him, ignoring Thomas’ hand altogether.
“Who else would I be? Darth Vader?”
Stepping right up to Thomas, he said, “Look man, I know this may come as a shock to you, seeing as how you just barged in here and dumped your stuff, but I’ve had this pad to myself for all of last semester and through summer school. I don’t want or need a roommate. So don’t get comfortable unpacking, because once I get things straight with that witch of an RA, you’ll be moving along to annoy someone else. Got it!”
He was pointing his index finger right in Thomas’ face. Not a good idea.
Thomas lowered his right hand and with his left hand he quickly grabbed the kid’s finger and twisted it backwards. His new roommate let out a yelp. But Thomas let go of him before he broke the finger and smiled; a smile that conveyed something less than happiness. His roommate took a step back towards his desk and wrapped his finger, clearly in pain. Thomas just grinned at the kid, who had a look of astonishment on his face. Thomas wanted to convey a message and his’ ‘smile’ could be just as intimidating and disarming as his glare. The trick was employing it at opportune times. In this case, he needed to make a ‘good’ first impression on his new roommate, which apparently had achieved the desired effect of scaring the crap out of him. In Thomas’ opinion, frightening the living daylights out of his roommate with a carefully controlled grin could work wonders in setting their relationship off on the right foot. Almost breaking his finger couldn’t hurt either. Well, at least it wouldn’t hurt for Thomas. His new roommate obviously thought otherwise.
Speaking in a slow, hushed tone, Thomas said, “You must think that I’m rude. I never even called to ask for your permission to enroll in the university before applying. But the application and enrollment forms never mentioned that you had such control over room assignments. If I had known that I needed your approval first, then I would have asked. Please forgive me.”
Thomas said all of this while maintaining a wide smile and a hushed but intense voice. The grin never touched his eyes, however, so the look that this kid received was that of a hardened predator, licking its chops to devour its prey. It had the desired effect.
His roommate backed all the way up to his desk chair, looking and sounding very defensive.
“No need to get pissy! I just don’t like sharing space is all. It’s not personal.”
Thomas decided to switch gears and strategies, dropping the maniacal grin and offering a more pleasant laugh. He did have to live with this guy for nine months. He wouldn’t be able to threaten him all the time hoping for the same result. Flies and honey and all that. Thomas paused a second before saying, “No worries. I wasn’t taking it personal. If I had, your finger would be broken, not sore. But from where I come from, refusing to shake someone’s hand when offered IS a personal insult. Maybe we can start over?” Thomas again extended his hand for the kid to shake.
His roommate paused for a second, looked at Thomas and his meager belongings, hesitated another moment and then said, “Well, I guess we can. I wasn’t trying to offend you or anything. It’s just that jerk of an RA . She has it out for me.” He stepped over and shook Thomas’ hand.
“I’m Terrence Bruder. What did you say your name was? G.I. Joe?”
Thomas shook Terrence’s hand firmly, noting the lack of any callouses or signs of hardship, and replied with a softer smile, “Thomas. Thomas Patrick Henry. Pleasure to meet you Terrence Bruder.”
Terrence moved to sit down on his bed, flexing his hand and setting aside a newspaper that was folded and resting on his pillow.
“What kind of name is that? Your parents love revolutionary war history or something?”
“Or something. I’m related to the original Patrick Henry. It’s kind of a tradition in my family to give the first-born son the middle name Patrick. Kind of keeps the family connection alive.”
Thomas swung the wooden desk chair around so he could sit down and talk more casually.
“So how is the engineering program here at OU?”
Terrence glanced over at his desk, eyeing his textbooks, and then turned to look back at Thomas.
“It’s alright. Tough to find a good study group that speaks English properly, though.”
He pointed at Thomas’ duffel bag and changed the subject, “That all you brought with you?”
Thomas glanced at his bag, and said, “I brought all that I own, if that’s what you mean. I have a few more things in my truck, but nothing that won’t fit on the bed or walls in here.”
Terrence shook his head and, starting to return to his earlier tone of voice and mood, stated, “looks like you just stepped out of boot camp and forgot to turn in your stuff before leaving.”
Thomas chuckled and nodded his head, looking down at his faded jeans, old running shoes and ‘ARMY’ t-shirt. “I haven’t had much chance to get some new clothes since I got out of the service a few months ago. Life’s been moving pretty fast for me lately.”
“Oh yeah? Where you from Tom?”
“It’s Thomas. And I come from Speedway, Indiana.”
“You’re from where in Indiana?”
“Speedway. It’s just west of Indianapolis. It’s where the Indy 500 is run each year at the IMS.”
Thomas turned and reached into his backpack. He pulled out his keys and tossed them to Terrence. Terrence tried to catch them but they just dropped onto his bed. He picked them up and pulled out the key ring that had an Indy 500 logo; checkered flags waving behind an Indy car that looked like it could go a million miles an hour.
“If you’ve never been to see the race, you should go. It’s one of the coolest experiences you’ll ever have. The racing is fun too.”
Terrence tossed the keys back to Thomas, and said, “Yeah, well, I don’t like cars.”
“You don’t like cars? You’re in the engineering program and you don’t like cars? How is that?” Thomas asked while stashing his keys away again and then sat down on the chair next to his desk.
Terrence just shrugged, and asked, “So what brought you all the way out here to OU?”
Thomas was starting to catch on that Terrence didn’t like to talk about himself. That’s fine, he thought, I don’t mind breaking the ice a bit. He did say he was without a roommate last year. Thomas still wondered why that was.
“I got a national merit scholarship and OU allowed me to defer it until after my service.”
That was only partially true. He had turned down the scholarship initially, which offered a full ride on tuition, fees, books, room and board. He had opted to enlist in the military instead, just one week after graduating high school. It had made sense at the time. He would later regret that decision. But he couldn’t dwell on that now. Too many bad memories.
Terrence broke his train of thought, not seeming to notice Thomas’ smile slip off of his face, by saying, “Ah! A fellow merit scholar! Didn’t see you at the annual reception yesterday with El Presidente. You missed out on a good spread; barbeque sandwiches, chips, an endless supply of Dr. Pepper.”
Thomas shook his head and replied, “I got into town late last night and had to sleep in my truck. But it sounds like I should’ve paid more attention to the information packet they sent me. I’ve been wanting to try some of the barbeque down here. And what’s with the Dr. Pepper infatuation?” Thomas pointed to all of the DP cans on Terrence’s side of the room.
Terrence waved off the question. “It’s the fine wine of the South. Everyone knows that. So what is your major, clearly not engineering? You gonna be one of those Kinesiology guys? Always pumping iron and working out at all hours of the day, because I want to warn you right now that I like my sleep, especially at 9:30 in the morning. No early morning alarms or 5 am reveilles, got it.”
Thomas paused for a moment to look at Terrence and then said,
“It sounds like you decided to let me stay as your roommate, then.”
Thomas’ smile was as genuine as could be as Terrence did a double take, and finally said,
“Ah crap, you seem nice enough. Besides, it’ll be good having someone around who can beat up the riff raff around here who owe me money.”
Just then, another student poked his head into the room and said, “Hey, Terrence, we’re heading down to the quad for lunch. You comin’ or what?” Before Terrence could answer, the student was back into the hall shouting at somebody three rooms away about how long the line would be if they didn’t get their butts out the door before all of the freshmen streamed out of the building.
Terrence looked at Thomas, and said,
“That was Stan. He can be a little crusty, but he’s a practical SOB. And don’t let his slender appearance fool you. That guy could eat you and all of your platoon under the table.”
He hopped up from his bed and started to walk out the door. He paused at the entrance and said, “You coming roomy?”
Thomas grabbed his wallet out of his backpack, stood up and said,
“You bet. I think this is going to work out, Terrence.”
“Yeah, well don’t tell anybody. I have a reputation and all that.”
They closed the door to room 324 behind them and hurried to catch up to Stan and a group of guys hanging out by the stairwell. Thomas thought to himself, “move into my room, check; meet my new roommate, check; almost kick the crap out of him because he’s a jerk, check; makeup and bond, check. This day was going almost according to plan.” He couldn’t help but wonder what else awaited him as he headed down the stairs to grab some food with his new roommate and the other guys from the third floor of Boren Hall.

[VladJunior]

Chapter 2 New Friends

Chapter 2
New Friends
“The righteous choose their friends carefully,…” Proverbs 12:26
If the morning heat was sweltering, the mid-day sun had to be oven-roasting. Thomas experienced air-conditioning shock when he stepped out the doors of Boren Hall facing the quad of residence halls adjacent to the commons. The temperature had to be near a hundred degrees, and Thomas already started to sweat just standing on the side-walk waiting for the group of guys to form up before embarking on their search for food. He was the only member of the group wearing jeans. Everyone else had on loose shorts, either athletic shorts or khaki’s, along with loose fitting tee shirts.
Terrence introduced Thomas to the other members of the group. Stan, the skinny guy who had barged into their room, stood about six feet tall with dark brown hair and a couple of day’s stubble on his chin. With his Oakley shades on his face, he looked like a wannabe beach volleyball player, only without any discernable muscle or athletic ability. Next to Stan were two roommates, Josh from Tulsa and James from Dallas. These two guys looked like they were cut out of an Abercrombie and Fitch ad. Tall, dark and handsome summed them up, and it appeared that they were more concerned with their own looks than that of their companions. Both of them had smiles on their faces and were taking in the sight of a group of sorority girls walking toward one of the quad dorms. But all they did was look, as neither Josh nor James made any move to say hello or introduce himself. They were all sophomores, except for Stan who was a junior, and they all seemed to know each other from last year. Thomas definitely felt like the newcomer.
Without a word, or any other discernable signal, Stan started off towards the commons and the group followed. According to Terrence, the OU student union sponsored a free, welcome lunch buffet for students and parents on moving day. The emphasis, according to Stan, who seemed to glare at everything around him, was on the word free. As they rounded Cate dorms Thomas saw the common area between Walker, Couch and Adams Towers. It was a rolling patch of grass about the size of a football field and it was full from one side to the other with students and parents squatting on the ground with paper plates overflowing with burgers and chips. Thomas could smell the delicious goodness as the wind was gently blowing from the south end of the commons right into his face. Having skipped breakfast, and dinner last night, his stomach started complaining angrily that it was being neglected.
Stan led the way to the back of the line for burgers. A couple of students decked out in volunteer tee shirts and wearing plastic gloves were dishing out the grub as two others worked the grills right behind the table. The spread wasn’t exactly the finest of food, and the burgers appeared to be the frozen kind you could get in the freezer section at Walmart. But none of the students complained. After all, it was free, which meant that it was a feast.
Having procured two burgers, a bag of barbeque chips and a can of Dr. Pepper, in honor of Terrence, Thomas followed the guys to a clear patch of grass where another group of students had set out a couple of blankets in the shade of some live oak trees. He sat down next to Terrence and, rather than wait for introductions, decided to greet the new students. He reached across the blanket towards one of the girls sipping a Diet Coke and said, “Hello, I’m Thomas. What’s your name?”
The girl looked at his hand and then at his face and smiled, saying, “I’m Wendy. Glad to meet you Thomas.” After shaking hands, she turned to look at a newcomer who was just sitting down next to her and said, “This is my roommate, Abigail. Abby, it looks like Thomas is the new guy.”
Abigail had long, curly blond hair and dimpled cheeks that somehow made her face glow when Thomas first saw her. She had pale blue eyes and a smile that would raise global warming alarm bells for melting ice. “Hello, Thomas. Glad to meet you, although I hear from Tracy that you are rooming with Terrence. Good luck with that.”
Terrence didn’t take the comment lying down, “Hey, I heard that, Abby. For your information, I decided to take Thomas in as a rescue case. You know how I like to support lost causes.”
Abby’s smile got even bigger, if that was possible, as she replied, “You should know about lost causes Terrence. You know the saying, takes one to know one!”
Terrence started to mumble, “Walked right into that,” as Wendy said to Abby, “Abby! Be nice. Terrence didn’t do anything to deserve that.”
Abby just ignored Wendy and looked over at Thomas and then Terrence and said, “No, Terrence didn’t do anything to deserve that… but you were going to, right Terrence?”
Terrence just blushed and shrugged and dug his face into his burger. Josh and James started up a conversation with Wendy and a couple of other girls who had just joined the group. So Thomas leaned over and said, “Pleasure to meet you Abby. You seem to know Terrence pretty well. What advice can you give me for rooming with him?”
Abby paused and her face took on a quizzical look for a few seconds before her grin returned and she said, “Knowing Terrence, I would think that there is nothing I can say that will save you from the holy terror that you will experience being his roommate. He already drove two off last year, after all. One even had to leave school over the trauma. Right, Terrence?”
Terrence didn’t look up but mumbled something in between bites that Thomas couldn’t hear. Thomas leaned over closer to Abby so only she could hear and asked, “Why are you picking on Terrence? Did he do something to you?”
Abby’s smile finally faded. “No, he didn’t. Not particularly. He has a reputation for a quick tongue and somewhat of a jerk, but he didn’t do anything to warrant this.” Then Thomas was taken off guard when Abby reached across the blanket, grabbed Terrence by the wrist as he was picking up a potato chip and said softly, “Terrence, it was wrong of me to tease you, especially in front of your new roommate. Please forgive me.”
Terrence seemed almost as caught off guard as Thomas, so he stammered out “Yeah, well, you know, no hard feelings.”
Abby nodded and her smile returned just as quickly as it had faded. She turned to Thomas and asked, “So what school did you transfer from?”
Thomas, who had just decided that he should eat his burger while it was still lukewarm, paused to say, “I didn’t transfer. I’m a freshman.”
That caught the attention of some of the other students whose conversation had waned to a period of silence. Stan picked up on his statement and asked, “How old are you? Cause you don’t look eighteen to me.”
Wendy quickly jumped in and said, “Stan, it’s rude to ask someone’s age.”
Stan replied, “Only for girls, Wendy. Only for girls. Besides, Thomas looks like he can handle himself.” Stan gave Thomas one of his laser beam glares, as his Oakley’s dropped down the length of his nose.
Thomas just smiled and held up his hands as if to say, no problem, I’ll talk. “I’m twenty-two years old and I just came from four years of service to Uncle Sam. So I’m not a typical freshman, I guess.”
Josh and James both looked up from their burgers and said at the same time, “Twenty-Two! Beerman!”
Thomas laughed as Josh and James started high fiving other students and making comments about Thomas as the designated beer purchaser for the Honors dorm. Most of the girls did not join in the fun, he noticed. In particular, this part of the conversation made Abby frown and return her attention to her meal.
So Thomas decided to return the conversation back to where it had gotten derailed. “I came to OU by way of Army Intelligence. I did two tours overseas, one in Iraq and one in Afghanistan. But when it came time to re-up, I just couldn’t do it… So I enrolled here at OU.”
Abby and Wendy were nodding as though his explanation was all they needed. Stan was devouring his burger and it was questionable whether he even heard Thomas. And Josh and James had already moved on to flirting with some of the other girls nearby. But Thomas noticed that Terrence had been paying attention and taking in his every word.
Abby took a sip of her Dr. Pepper and then asked, “Where you from, Thomas?”
Thomas swallowed a bite of his burger, and was about to answer when Terrence said, “Speedway, Indiana. Home of the Indy 500. He’s a long way from home out here in Okie land.”
Thomas gave a nod and said, “Not exactly where I thought I would end up, but it was the ideal choice for me. All things considering.”
Abby leaned over and said, “And what things were you considering?”
Thomas was caught off guard. He didn’t want to get into why he fled Indiana for a school half way across the country, or at least a day’s drive from home. Abby seemed to sense his discomfort with the question and quickly added, “It’s okay if you don’t want to tell me. I’m just glad that you decided to come to OU.”
Thomas looked up from his plate and right into Abby’s blue eyes and asked, “You are? You just met me.”
Abby smiled and said, “Yes, but you already tamed the wild man over there. So you’ve done us all a service.” She and Wendy started giggling at Terrence, who was blushing three shades of red.
Thomas got the hint and said, “Well, he may be a wild man, but he is my roommate for the next nine months. So I’m glad I could help you out, but please treat him with respect.”
“Oh, that’s okay Thomas. I deserve the nickname. After all, the ladies do know that I am THE WILDMAN.” Terrence starting doing a somewhat awkward dance as he was sitting. It looked a lot like the twist only with some ‘robot’ thrown in. It wasn’t very coordinated or funky. But it did make the girls laugh. And that made Thomas laugh as well.
He was excited to meet a bunch of students that seemed to be friends and who seemed to include him right away in their group. The rest of the lunch descended into light banter as the students finished their over-cooked burgers and chips. Sometime between finishing his chips and drinking the last of his Dr. Pepper, Thomas noticed that the band was setting up on a stage at the south end of the green. It looked like a local group, judging by the many students who seemed to greet the band members as they were setting up their amps, keyboards, and guitars. Before Thomas could wonder who the band was, Terrence let out a deep sigh and boisterously whined, “Ah crap! These guys again?”
Abby and Wendy giggled and Stan just punched Terrence in the arm as he voiced his own opinion, “Don’t dis the greatest band in Norman! Just because you had a bad run in with them doesn’t mean that The Stink aren’t the best.”
The other guys started laughing out loud, and Terrence looked like he was ready to bolt. Feeling like he was missing an inside joke, Thomas decided to take a break from the conversation. He stood up to throw away his trash and reached for Terrence’s stuff while saying in a quiet voice, “What happened between you and the band?”
Terrence just gave him a glance that said ‘don’t ask’ and turned to start giving Stan a piece of his mind. So Thomas started walking towards a garbage bin that was located across the sidewalk on the other side of the green.
After a few seconds, Abby fell into step alongside him. Thomas glanced over and smiled, wondering if she was always this upbeat and welcoming. Even while she had been eating, she seemed to radiate a joy and peace. Of course, Terrence probably didn’t appreciate her verbal jabs. But after the initial altercation, Abby and Terrence had settled into a familiarity that made it seem like Abby only teased Terrence because Terrence expected it, not out of cruelty. Her smile was quick and genuine. Her eyes were bright and clear. And she had a soft southern lilt to her voice that oozed visions of porch swings and sweet tea. To Thomas, she just seemed full of life; something that he hadn’t ever expected to see again in another person. His immediate past was too devoid of any signs of life that finding it on day one of college was a shock to his already over-sensitive emotional system.
Abby tossed her trash away first and then paused as Thomas dumped his and Terrence’s. Thomas tried to break the ice with her a bit more and asked, “So what are you majoring in?”
Abby looked over at the group of students and then back at Thomas and said, “That’s a great question. I was a biochemistry major last year.” She started walking back across the green as the band started testing their mics.
“Was? That implies that you’re studying something different this year.”
“You don’t miss much do you?” Abby paused to let Thomas catch up and then said, “I’m still deciding what I really want to do. How about you? You must’ve picked OU for a reason to move so far from home.”
Thomas didn’t want to answer that question directly. There were several reasons he came to OU. Many had to do with running from his past. But he still couldn’t admit that was the main reason. Not to himself and especially not to a girl he just met. So he lied.
“I’m not sure what I want to major in yet either. I’m going to take it one step at a time. But I’m looking forward to starting classes again though, especially the course in ancient history. I lucked into that class. The registrar told me it was full, but apparently someone dropped at the last minute and I got in.”
As they drew nearer to the group, Abby slowed just before getting close enough for her friends to hear their conversation. Thomas had to stop and turn around to face her. Abby had a surprised look on her face. “You don’t mean the intro course with Professor Layton do you?”
Thomas wasn’t certain how to take that question. “Yeah, why?”
She replied a little too quickly. “No reason. I just have some friends who are in that class this year.” Abby frowned and stepped closer to Thomas and whispered, “Be careful in that class. The professor gives me the creeps.” Then she quickly went to sit back down next to Wendy, who got her instantly involved in a discussion about which sorority Wendy should pledge this year. Apparently Wendy was excited that it was pledge week starting on Monday. From the sound of the conversation, Thomas noticed that Abby didn’t seem to have an opinion about which sorority Wendy should join. She also didn’t seem interested in joining a sorority with Wendy. After a minute, Thomas slowly walked over to Terrence and sat down next to his roommate. Abby glanced over at him from her discussion with Wendy and Thomas could tell that she wanted to say more, but that this wasn’t the time for it. So Thomas didn’t jump into their conversation.
Instead, almost as if on a spring, Terrence jumped up and declared that it was time to go before his ears exploded from the filth coming out of the speakers. Thomas glanced up and noticed that Terrence seemed to expect him to follow, so he got up and said goodbye to the group. Nobody seemed to pay much attention to their departure, except Thomas thought he caught Abby glancing up from her talk with Wendy. She had put a smile back on her face and whatever worried her before seemed to have vanished.
He hurried to catch up to Terrence who was already striding purposely back towards the dorm. Once he caught up, Terrence turned to him and asked, “You have anything else you need to move in? Might as well get it moved now.”
Thomas replied, “Yeah, I have some bedding and odds and ends to move. Thanks for offering to help carry stuff up from my truck”
Terrence exclaimed, “Like hell I was. I just wanted to make sure you were done moving in before tonight’s festivities begin. I agreed to host the poker game tonight and I don’t want you moving your crap around and disturbing everybody.”
Thomas just smiled and put his arm over Terrence’s shoulder. He couldn’t help thinking that he could twist Terrence into a pretzel; the kid was so paper thin. Terrence drew back instantly from first touch, but Thomas held firm. “Just remember who you’re talking to roomy. Don’t want you to have any illusions about what can happen if you piss me off, okay?”
Thomas let go of Terrence and headed off towards his Explorer. As he did so, he turned to smile back at Terrence, who had stopped mid-stride, and was staring at Thomas and rubbing his finger. Yep, Terrence definitely knew what could happen if he got on Thomas’ bad side. But for now, Thomas liked Terrence too much to hurt him again. But he didn’t want the kid to get a big head. And Thomas wasn’t going to let Terrence run their room like he owned the place, either.
He hurried to gather his stuff and finish unpacking. If there was going to be money to win, Thomas wanted to be in on the action. After all, how good could these college kids be at poker compared to his old squad of intelligence grunts? It smelled like a golden opportunity for Thomas to make some extra bucks while getting to know the guys on the floor.
As he reached the back of his truck the speakers around the quad started blaring a version of punk-rock that Thomas was sure he had never heard. It gave him a distinct feeling of being dragged across the concrete and kicked in the gut. “No wonder Terrence hates this band… they sound like they wouldn’t know middle C if the keyboard was labelled,” he thought. As he grabbed his bedding and prepared to haul it into the dorm, his thoughts came back to Abby’s warning… What exactly was this Professor Layton like that would make a girl like Abby think he was creepy?

[VladJunior]

Chapter 3 New Class, Same Lessons

Chapter 3
New Class, Same Lessons
“In his pride the wicked man does not seek him; in all his thoughts there is no room for God” Psalm 10:4
Professor Jack Layton sat at his desk sipping a cup of Earl Grey and reading his notes for his first class of Introduction to Ancient History. He was a tall man, with dark wavy hair, a strong square chin, bright blue eyes and the build of someone who knew the gym on a regular basis. English by birth and upbringing, with a ruddy East London accent, Layton was 45 years old, looked 35, and felt like 25. Most of his students, and some of the faculty, thought of him as the ‘Indiana Jones’ of the OU history department. He wasn’t going to argue with them. He always appreciated the sense of flare and popularity his accomplishments had brought him. Professor Layton’s experience in the fields of archaeology and ancient history stood up to some of the top researchers in the world. And his propensity for making big finds and landing top flight exhibits for OU's History Museum had secured him tenure and a corner office as chair of the department. But none of those accomplishments meant much to him. Professor Layton had greater ambitions.
Layton set his cup down for a moment, grabbed a yellow highlighter and marked a particularly interesting story that he wanted to tell his young undergrads that would be sure to lose their attention and waste class time. Not that he cared what the students learned. This class was just a necessary evil as far as he was concerned.
Layton picked up his tea cup, took a sip and perused his class notes. Underneath his squall of papers and books, he briefly noticed his most recent research journal, tucked away as if calling to him to return to what was important. Layton really needed to be working on his research. His advance money was running low and he would need to produce results soon or his ‘friends’ overseas would start to make trouble for him. He didn’t want to think about what trouble might feel like.
Besides, this class was just an absolute waste of his talents and energy. In fact, lecture time was always a drag and none greater than the first one of the semester. There was never any way to guarantee that the students in the class on day one would even be there the rest of the semester. Several would drop out before the second lecture, while some would simply show up for exams or when they needed to hand in papers. The rest of the seats, if they were filled at all, would usually be occupied by over eager ideologues wanting him to tell vast tales of exotic adventures. Professor Layton could do that, and was known to wax poetic about his travels and accomplishments in the fields of history and archaeology. But usually the only benefit he received from teaching courses to the undergraduates was the view of the sorority girls who filled the first row; and sometimes a little more than that. But those meetings were more clandestine and best kept secret, especially from the university.
Layton flipped through the course syllabus and double checked the outline for exam content. This course dealt with the material on a very shallow level, designed as a survey course of world history from around 2500 BCE to the early Roman period, around 75 BCE. None of the topics were dealt with in depth, and he could probably recall the information in his sleep. As the foremost archaeologist at the university and the Whitmore Chair of Ancient History, Professor Layton, or “Prof” as his students liked to call him, held enormous sway over his own research and schedule, with one exception - OU required that he teach at least one introduction to ancient history course, lower level and geared towards freshmen and sophomores to get them interested in the department of Classics.
It was a waste of his time, if anyone ever cared to ask his opinion. But the administration did not care and so here he was again at the beginning of the Fall semester preparing for his first lecture to a bunch of students who wouldn't remember the class by the end of the day, let alone be inspired by it. In fact, he thought, most will be too stupid to even know what I am talking about.
Which reminded him that he still needed to find a good research assistant. His last one had not worked out at all. Layton had to let him go at the end of last semester and had spent the whole summer trying to re-organize his assistant's files, re-translate his work, and find out what was missing. “At least he never found out what I am really looking for,” Layton thought. “Otherwise he and I would have had a similar fate. Best to stay positive and act with more caution from now on. I need someone I can trust, but where am going to find an Arabic linguist in Norman, Oklahoma who isn't tied to some outside fringe group or other?”
He glanced at his iPhone as it started to quack at him. His timer was going off, bringing him back to reality and the more immediate need to get through this lecture. “One step at a time, Jack! You can't dig too fast that you spoil the treasure.” He took a last drag on his tea, grabbed his notes and set off for the lecture hall on the first floor of the building.
--------------------------------
Standing at the front of the large classroom, Layton could tell that this class might be different. Most of the chairs were taken, leaving only the last row empty. That in itself was unusual as the last row in any class was usually the first to be filled. The class was arranged in five rows of ten self-contained metal desk-chairs. The students all sat conversing loudly or typing away on their smartphones. Usually, he wouldn’t have minded the large group, but his mood lately toward teaching had shifted from mild annoyance to outright frustration. Of course, most of that frustration dealt with his own failure to meet the deadlines of his superiors. And he wasn’t thinking of the administration at the university.
Layton set down his notes on the lectern that sat on the elevated space in front of the class. Glancing up briefly to take note of the time, he grabbed a stack of blank pieces of paper off of the top of the stack of notes and began in a confident, booming voice:
“I am Professor Jack Layton and I see that we have a nearly full class this semester.” Layton surveyed the room and noted that most of the students still were not paying attention, despite his having obviously started the class. This just annoyed him further, so he put on his best smile and said a little louder:
“Glad to see such an interest in ancient history among today's young people. I want to start the course off with a bang, so take out a pen or pencil because we are going to have a pop quiz.”
All of the students stopped talking and most had a look of shock on their faces. Some of the students in the front of the class started to whisper and grumble, and one student in the middle of the class said rather loudly to his buddy, “Is he serious?”
Prof started pacing the front of the lecture hall, which was slightly elevated in the front of the five rows of seats where the students sat. A white board was to his back and on the side of the elevated lecture platform sat an overhead projector - digital of course. Prof slowly approached one of the students he suspected to be a grumbler and paused, slapping down the stack of blank sheets of paper to be passed down the row. Looking right down his nose at him and with a broad grin said, “I am always serious... Except when I am joking. Now write your name at the top of the page and get ready for question number one.” Professor Layton walked back towards the projector and sat down to begin writing his questions as he called them out. “I want to see what kind of hand I have been dealt and whether you are as ignorant of the world as I think you are.”
He watched as each student took a sheet of paper and passed back the rest of the stack, until all of them appeared to be ready for the quiz. Several girls in the back started to giggle and Prof thought he could hear one mention how much cuter he was in person. Putting on his most charming smile, so as not to disappoint his obvious fans, he started the quiz by asking, and writing, “Number one: from what country, in modern day boundaries, did Hammurabi rule?” Some students in the front started to write down answers but most of the other students just looked around to see if anyone else knew the answer. Prof's low expectations were off to a fabulous start if he wanted them confirmed with this group.
Layton paused briefly, and a little more determined he asked “Number two: what is Hammurabi most well-known for and when did he perform this feat of greatness?”
More students started to write but he could tell by the amount of time that they were taking that the second half of the question was proving to be a stumper.
“Number three: what king from the same country was mentioned as a psychotic lunatic in the Hebrew Bible. I want his correct name and also his date of rule. And for kicks tell me what the name of his kingdom was called and who conquered it following his rule.”
Layton listed out the four parts to question three and looked up at his class. He could see a whole bunch of blank stares and several students who were on their smart phones trying to find the answers. He was just about to remind the students of the honor code and the consequences of using a smartphone on a test when he noticed one student in the middle of the class who was writing down an answer.
Layton got up from the projector and stepped down from the platform to walk over to the student. As he did he called “Time! Pass your papers forward to the front of the class. Do it now, please!" Most of the students started passing papers, mostly blank, forward to the front of the class, while a few still scribbled away after briefly glancing at other papers being handed to them. As he reached the student's desk in the middle of the class, Prof caught the paper being passed forward and stopped right beside the student.
He noticed that the student looked older than most of the kids in his class; maybe early to mid-twenties or so. He was wearing a white t-shirt with an Indy 500 car on the front and a pair of faded blue-jeans. His sandy-brown hair was cropped short around the ears and trimmed low on top. He didn't seem to be very big, probably a few inches shorter than Prof, if he stood up, but Prof could tell he was strong and well-conditioned. Layton thought, “This has to be the low of the low. Now they send me Army dummies who can't even cut it in the military. Well, this ought to be a fun humiliation exercise.”
Smiling at the student as he raised the paper up high for the class, sure to have all eyes on him, as he said, “Let's just see how we did, shall we? Let's start with you, Mister..?”
The student amazingly met his gaze directly with slate grey eyes that clearly were not intimidated by Prof in the least and said with a strong voice, “Henry, sir. My name is Thomas Henry.”
Layton met Thomas’ gaze and asked, “Judging solely from looks I would peg you for a military man, is that right Mr. Henry?”
“Yes sir. Not active anymore. My enlistment expired in May.”
Prof almost let the smile fade from his face but continued with the show, nonetheless. “Well, Mr. Henry, let us see how you did! Number one, Hammurabi ruled in modern day… Iraq... Correct!” Prof looked around the room as several students started to discuss the answer among them. He noticed that most appeared to have missed this. Prof was only slightly shocked at this. “Hammurabi was a Mesopotamian king who helped consolidate the land in and around the ancient kingdom of Ur, and what we know as modern day Iraq. Well done. The military man gets full marks. Probably did a tour in that country I bet, which may account for the correct answer. Number two... What did Hammurabi accomplish and when… Writing the Code of Hammurabi and 18th century BC....”
Prof looked down at Thomas and this time actually frowned. Or maybe it was a pout. Without a mirror he could never tell if he was putting on a precise show or not. It would have to do. “So sorry, Mr. Henry. This answer is only partially correct. Hammurabi did indeed write something known as the ‘Hammurabi Code,’ but I was looking for a more accurate description, such as a set of written laws that put into practice the principle of ‘an eye for an eye.’ And the date is rather sloppy as well. It was 1750s BCE to be precise. We don’t say BC anymore, Mr. Henry. This is the 21st Century after all. No need to refer to Jesus of Nazareth for dating. We simply call it Common Era and Before Common Era, now.”
Layton glanced around to gauge the reaction of his classroom audience and was pleased to note the smirks on many students’ faces, including a few who outright chuckled. As he looked back down at Thomas, Layton was surprised to see that none of this criticism seemed to impress the student. Mr. Henry continued to give him the same impassive stare from before. “Most ‘efficient’ of him.” Layton thought. “Probably that military drilling that saps the life out of a person. Well, let’s see how he did on the whopper question.”
Layton started walking back to the front of the classroom to collect the quizzes from the front row and said loudly, “And for the piece de resistance, Number three… who was the biblical king from this same area in Iraq, when did he rule, what was the name of his kingdom and who conquered it? Let’s see how you did Mr. Henry… Nebuchadnezzar… wrong, Mr. Henry. While that is how he is called in the Hebrew Bible, I asked for his correct name. The fact is that he is the second Nebuchadnezzar from the Chaldean kingdoms, and thus the one you mention in your answer lived some 600 years before Nebuchadnezzar II. And the rest of your answer,… around 600 BC… again, such a Sunday school response. We don’t follow Sunday school in this class, but actual, historical fact. I was looking for 605 to 562 BCE. But again, I will grant you partial credit for your answer. And for the last part, what was the name of his kingdom,… Babylonian Empire… well, well,… you are correct Mr. Henry. I assumed that if you got this far you might say Achaemenid Empire. But well done. And as for who conquered the Babylonians,… Cyrus the Great… again, right on the money, and I note that you state he was Persian… extra points to you. That should make up for your partial answers from before.”
Layton addressed the class from the front of the lecture hall as he collected the last papers from the front row occupants. He had never had a student answer so well on all three questions, especially someone who appeared to know the distinction between a Babylonian and a Persian. Most students, and Sunday school teachers for that matter, didn’t seem to know or care about the difference. But different they were, vastly, and it was an important distinction. Prof remained quiet a moment longer before beginning the lecture part of his class. He wondered if he should test this army jock to see how deep his understanding of the cultural differences went. Worth a try, what else is exciting about lecture one except to scare off the riff raff so he didn’t have to grade as many papers at the end of the semester.
He looked at Thomas and asked, “Mr. Henry, please tell the class one difference between a Babylonian and a Persian in the ancient world,… if you can.”
Thomas looked directly at Prof and in a clear voice, with no hesitation, stated, “The Babylonians kept the Hebrews in exile while the Persians let them return to their homeland.”
Prof had to pause a moment to think whether that was a legitimate answer or not. On the one hand, it sounded incredibly Sunday Schoolish. On the other, it contained smatterings of cultural fact. He decided it was worth further interrogation to determine the statements’, and ultimately the student’s, value.
“And tell us, Mr. Henry, why that distinction is important in evaluating the differences between the two cultures.”
Thomas paused a moment to look around the classroom and then he locked eyes again with Prof before delivering his answer, “Because the Babylonians sought to conquer and convert their territories to their culture and religion, whereas the Persians allowed their conquered lands to have a form of local-governance that did not require cultural or religious conversion, only fealty to the Persian crown. That is why the Persian Empire was so successful in keeping city-states from revolting. Even Alexander the Great employed this technique when he captured the Persian crown.”
At this, Prof threw out the rest of the lesson plan and focused laser beams onto this student who was sitting in an introductory course on ancient history, and yet seemed to know the textbook already. For a moment, Prof had a nagging feeling that this kid was either a savior or his executioner. Perhaps his friends in Egypt were growing less-patient than he thought. Was this a message from them? Was he in danger? Only one way to find out.
“Mr. Henry, it fascinates me that at the beginning of this class you already are able to discern, quite articulately for us, the differences between two ancient kingdoms who will be a part of the focus of the syllabus. Tell me how you came by this distinct knowledge.” Prof’s smile had faded and he was starting to lose his cool. He had a Glock 9mm in his satchel if he needed it, but something told him that if this kid was armed already, it wouldn’t matter whether Prof could get to his gun or not. He would be dead before he got to the podium. The thought made him start to perspire and his heart started beating a mile a minute.
Thomas, however, didn’t seem fazed or concerned at the question. The kid just shrugged and said, “While I was in Iraq I served under a Colonel who was also a professor in the Army’s war college. He was a big history buff and would go on and on about Iraq, Iran, and ancient Mesopotamia. He was especially a fan of telling us how the kings would defeat insurgents, something we dealt with on a daily basis. He once told me that the Persians took the pragmatic approach while the Babylonians tried to be too Machiavellian. At the time, I didn’t really care, I just wanted to survive and help my friends survive. But I am starting to understand what he meant.”
That answer calmed Layton’s nerves. He turned around on the podium and walked over to the lectern. As he set down the quizzes and took up the syllabus Layton also took a deep breath. What he wouldn’t give for a shot of whiskey right then. He was getting too paranoid. Whatever issues had arisen last semester surely wouldn’t plague him into this one. He did, after all, get his third installment payment.
Layton picked up his notes and saw the class list lying at the bottom of the stack of papers. He briefly glanced down the list of names until he saw “Thomas Henry*.” The asterisk indicated that the student was not only an honors student, but a National Merit Scholar; one of a favored few that the administration worked hard to recruit and promote at the University. No wonder the kid was so sharp. But a Merit Scholar wouldn’t necessarily know the ins and outs of the ancient world. Otherwise this course would be a waste of time. Layton needed a way to figure out what the deal was with Mr. Henry. He couldn’t afford to have a trouble maker in class; especially one that looked like he could be a hit man.
“Class, one of the first things you will discover about history in the ancient world is that what we think we know is not often correlated to what we should know.” Layton plastered his best smile on his face and tried to be as confusing as possible. The more esoteric his lecture, the more students would drop. And coincidentally, perhaps this Mr. Henry would stand out by contrast. If he was undercover, then that would certainly make the student’s job harder, and Layton’s easier.
Judging by the dull looks on the faces of the students in the front row, Layton had succeeded in his first attempt to lose the class.
“What you must understand by the end of the course is that history is not just a series of events strung in a line of pre-determined destiny. Like some grandiose play where the movers and shakers of the world merely recite their parts to the best of their ability. No, if life truly were a stage, then we are not players, but ad-libbers. As the ancient Romans used to say, “Acta est fabula, plaudite. Which means…”
Layton stopped mid-sentence as he saw Mr. Henry’s hand shoot into the air. The action caught him off guard. Before he could say anything his eyes met the students and that seemed to communicate some permission to speak.
“The drama has been acted out. Applaud.” Mr. Henry spoke up, completing his interpretation and surprising both Layton and the rest of the class, who had all but fallen asleep after the first ten seconds of his speech. Layton stepped down from the podium to pace the front row. That woke the class up and broke his rhythm. He was really starting to dislike this kid.
“Another one of your colonel’s tidbits of knowledge that he gifted to you, Mr. Henry?”
“Not that one. I know Latin, among other languages.” Thomas spoke while shrugging his shoulders.
“Interesting! And what other languages do you know besides English and Latin? Speak a bit of Spanish do you? Most everyone in this classroom knows some Spanish. It is almost impossible to avoid growing up in the Tex-Mex culture that we live in here in Oklahoma and not know how to read a menu. How would my students survive without their chimichangas and tostadas?” That elicited a chuckle from the group on the front row and an outright squeal from one of the girls in the back. So the students were at least paying attention to his banter with this “know it all.” In his experience, most Merit Scholars were long on brains but short on social skills. This one appeared to be unaware of how to act in a classroom. Or at least he appeared not to care that he was quickly earning the “gunner” title for this particular group. Although, come to think of it, Layton wasn’t sure he wanted a former Army grunt to be the “gunner.” That could have very negative connotations for him in the future.
Mr. Henry brought his attention back to the present when he replied, “I had to learn lots of languages in the Army as part of my job. I’m fluent in German, Spanish, Italian, Arabic, Hebrew and Pashto. I also know some Latin, although I can’t speak it very well. Sorry to interrupt, but I thought you were asking us to translate your statement and I just responded out of habit more than anything. It’s pretty much all I did for the last four years.”
Layton thought it must be Christmas. This was the break he was looking for. If the kid wasn’t lying, which it appeared that he was the sincere type, then this could solve his schedule problems and fast track his research. Without further discussion, Layton turned his back on Thomas and walked back up to the projector and stated, “Mr. Henry you will see me after class to discuss your response. In the meantime, everyone pull out your syllabus and turn to the calendar on the back. I will walk you through my expectations for this course and then we will get to the first assignment that will be due next class period.” Several of the students moaned, seeing that the time for banter with Mr. Henry had concluded abruptly without any further abuse from Prof.
As soon as the class ended, Mr. Henry popped up from his desk and walked up to the podium. Layton waited for the classroom to clear and even gave a smile and nod to several of the girls who were lingering to the end. But fun time was for later. Down to business.
“You seem to have an interesting background, Mr. Henry...”
“Please, call me Thomas. Mr. Henry was my dad.”
Prof paused to consider, and then said, “Mr. Henry I see that you have a knack for doing what you want, when you want. But in my classroom you will refrain from interrupting me without permission. Am I clear?”
Thomas replied immediately, “Yes, sir. Clear, sir.”
Prof continued in a softer tone, “I am intrigued by your background, Mr. Henry. You can speak seven languages and know an eighth to such degree that you can interpret on the fly. I wonder what kind of work you performed for the army.” Layton had carefully positioned himself by his satchel, having placed the quizzes and lecture notes into the bag and left his hand on the gun he kept there. One could never be too careful and he was taking no chances in the event that his instincts were off and this kid really was sent to harm him.
Thomas remained quiet. Apparently, he took direction well. Prof had yet to ask him a question, and this kid kept his mouth shut. Excellent.
“What was your job in the military?”
“I served in Army Intelligence, but beyond that I’m not at liberty to disclose.” Thomas answered in a straight forward manner.
“And this job required you to learn six new languages in four years? How is it even possible to pick up languages that quickly?”
“I’ve always had a knack for languages, sir. I knew German and Spanish before joining the military and picked up one new language each year of service.”
Layton paused to consider the answer, and removed his hand from his satchel. This kid was what he seemed: a student that didn’t pose a threat. He could use him. A linguistic expert with no ties to his friends in the middle east. A free thinker, and a smart one as evidenced by the National Merit Scholarship. Yes, Mr. Henry was a gift from heaven… not that Layton believed in that sort of thing.
“Well, Mr. Henry, I might encourage you to be less eager to demonstrate your outstanding abilities without first verifying that the professor was seeking your opinion. But I won’t encourage you to stop using them. This university needs brilliant minds like your own. We could use more of you, Mr. Henry, and that is a fact. Good day to you and I will be sure to pay close attention to your work in this course. It can’t hurt to have friends in the faculty, you know. Do well, and you may earn a valuable friend indeed.”
Layton gave a polite smile and held out his hand. Thomas shook it firmly, and smiled back, saying, “Yes sir. Thank you, sir.” With that, Layton picked up his satchel and walked out of the classroom, leaving Thomas to gather his things. Thomas couldn’t see that Layton was grinning ear to ear. Time to let his financiers know that he had found a solution to their linguistics problem.