Stargate SG-1: Trial by Fire: SG1-1 (23 page)

lla res inquam mulieres non atingit." I'm telling you this matter
is no woman's business, Dr. Siobhan Kelly mouthed along
morosely. She'd been hearing that since she got up. Thirty-eight
times so far, if her count was correct.

A couple of steps later she paused to catch her breath. Halfway
up the foothills they'd finally reached the edge of a sparse pine
forest. It had to be midmorning, and the skies were clear. The
two suns seemed to have entered into a contest, and even a fresh
mountain breeze did nothing to ease the heat. She grabbed a fistful
of stola and dabbed the perspiration off her face. Finally something
that ridiculous agglomeration of fabric was suited for.

Scurrying across the meadows below, she could see another
group headed in their direction. Women and children and a few
ancient veterans on walking sticks, shooed on by a pair of guards.
They seemed to be the last lot to have left the garrison. The groups
that had gone before were out of sight now, vanished around a
rocky outcrop further up.

Naturally, noone had bothered to explain to her why they were
re-enacting the Exodus. Just over an hour ago, a soldier had run
down the main street at a brisk clip, shouting at the top of his lungs.
It had resulted in further hollering from sundry parties and general
headless-chicken behaviour. Shortly after that, and with similar
discretion and decorum, Round Rosy had come barging into
Kelly's room and announced that they were to leave immediately.
Kelly had plopped onto the bed and informed her that she wasn't
going anywhere unless they either told her where O'Neill was or
produced him in person.

This had occasioned the thirty-seventh iteration of that infuriating
sentence. Isla res inquam mulieres non atingit.

Then two soldiers had appeared on the plot andphysically hauled
her out of the door and into the street, until she'd shown signs of
voluntary cooperation. Her mood, which thanks to a sleepless night
hadn't been brilliant to begin with, had deteriorated to an all-time low. Partly it was her own fault, and Kelly knew it. She should
have rammed the facts down his throat, whether he wanted to hear
them or not.

The jigsaw pieces had slotted into place as soon as she'd clapped
eyes on that medallion in the assembly hall yesterday. Subsequently
she'd kicked herself for not having made the connection sooner.
Served her right for stupidly expecting aliens to be alien. They
weren't. They were just, well... Roman. The Phrygian clothes, the
`bull-slayer', the mystery, even the melodramatic handshake ritual,
spelled it out in capital letters: they were disciples of Mithras. But,
of course, that plonker would insist on not listening to her and had
gone where angels feared to tread. And now he'd probably got
what he deserved, and her watchdogs steadfastly refused to tell her
where he was or when he'd be back. If he'd be back.

She'd read enough to wonder. Whenever her undergraduates
threatened to grow infatuated with so-called Roman virtue or to
fall for the fluffy fantasies of Mary Stewart, she'd bundle them into
a coach and ship them off to Carrawburgh to have a gander at the
Mithraeum there. The one item that never failed to impart a healthy
dose of realism on young airheads was the evocatively named
`ordeal pit'. Most extant descriptions were gleefully sadistic;
alleged initiation practices included branding, starvation, flogging,
some kind of trial by fire, odd goings-on with animal masks, and
ritual murder. The latter being somewhat confusing. Dr. Kelly
couldn't for the life of her imagine how one would initiate a corpse
into one's secret society.

But even if that particular item defied credence, none of the rest
sounded terribly cheerful. Enough to drive anyone barmy. And he
was nutty as a fruitcake already. Any crazier, and he wouldn't be
able to do what he ought to do, namely get her out of this...

Oh crumbs! Who did she think she was fooling? She was worried
out of her mind. She liked that pigheaded Irish fool, no use denying
it. Finding a half-decent sparring partner was a rare pleasure. Better
yet, behind the bulwark of irony lurked a Quixotesque romantic
who actually put his money where his mouth was and went and
fought the bloody windmills.

"Oh hell, duckie," she groaned.

Round Rosy, who had continued stolidly to plod uphill, seemed
to have realised that she'd misplaced her charge, turned, and came
galumphing back, sprightly as a hippopotamus.

"Veni, domina! Celeriter!"

"Festina lente," Kelly shot back, which roughly translated as
make haste slowly. She'd never have believed that a public school
stockpile of inane Roman proverbs would come in handy one day.

Suddenly an idea presented itself. Round Rosy wanted her to
jog up that mountain at best possible speed. Kelly wanted answers.
Surely they'd be able reach some form of agreement, wouldn't
they? Besides, she could do with a rest, and this was a delightful
spot. The view was stunning, overlooking the lush, sun-drenched
valley and the garrison below, and the trees were fragrant and gave
plenty of shade.

Professor Kelly dusted a handful of pine needles off a convenient
rock and sat down just as Rosy rumbled to a halt.

"Domina! Noli restore

"Ubi est?"

Rosy's face took on a flattering mulish cast, and she brayed,
"Quin?„

"Who? God give me strength! The wretched creature's asking
me who? You tell me right now where they've taken the lad, or
you'll have to carry me up that mountain!"

Somewhere towards the latter end of that harangue Kelly noticed
the obvious glitch and repeated all of it in Latin, which sounded far
too polite for her purposes. Not that it had any substantial difference
in effect.

Shoulders drooping with frustration, Rosy shook her head.
"Nescio, domina. Verum est."

A straight answer for once, but the woman claimed she didn't
know. Likely enough. Rosy probably didn't know what day of the
week it was. So much for the power of passive resistance. Now
what? Surrender gracefully, or take a leaf out of Mahatma Gandhi's
book and sit here until she starved?

While she still pondered the dilemma, the group she'd watched
earlier caught up with them. Its vanguard was a muscular, nononsense redhead who herded before her the Tyrean boy, Luli. He looked sleepy and altogether as enthusiastic about this expedition
as Kelly felt. When he saw her, he brightened up a little and ran
over.

"Lady Siobhan! I am so pleased to find you!" He coupled it with
a little bow.

At least the boy had manners. The address also reminded her
that she was on Her Majesty's Birthday List. Unless she got off
this godforsaken planet within the next three months, she could go
whistling for her DBE. It would be Dame Siobhan, of course, but
she wouldn't get either title if she pretended to be a speck of lichen
on this rock. Which quite convincingly solved her quandary.

Kelly rose and did her best to smile at the boy. Normally she
avoided minors like the plague. How the dickens did one make
conversation with a child?

"Hello, Luli. How do you do?" A little stilted, but it was a start.

"I do not like these people," he mumbled miserably. "I want to
go home!"

"Join the club, laddie. I don't like them either, and I want to go
home, too. See, now there's two of us already."

"Two?" His face fell further, and a tinge of panic infused his
eyes. "Where is Jack? What did they do to him? He fought for me!
Did they harm him? I shall kill them if they did!"

What was she supposed to say to that, apart from admitting that
this boy had put her to shame. There were more important things
than a poxy knighthood. So what was she to do? Tell him the truth?
Dear Mama hadn't believed in mollycoddling, and Luli would find
out sooner or -

"Lady Siobhan?"

Good God, she hated this!

"I don't know," she said at last, trying to sound positive and mask
her own fear. Right now she wanted nothing so much as a quiet,
mildewed study and a desk piled with insipid student essays. Sod
fieldwork! "They took him away yesterday, and I've seen neither
hide nor hair of him since. They won't tell me what happened to
him."

"I shall kill them! I shall kill -"

"Shush! Don't talk like a halfwit! You're neither old enough nor strong enough to kill anybody. Besides, I'm sure he's just fine."

"You think so?" the child snivelled.

"I know so. Because he is old enough and strong enough to kill
somebody."

Or to get killed... What was it she'd said - thought - about no
mollycoddling? She was mollycoddling herself, that's what.

Birds twittered, Round Rosy flapped her hands impatiently,
and so did the harridan who had escorted the boy. The rest of the
ramblers had filed past, and up ahead the last old morsel hastily
doddered around the bend in the trail and disappeared from view.
Without making a conscious decision to do so, Kelly grabbed the
child's grubby little paw, her glower daring the women to stop her.
They made no move to interfere. All of a sudden it occurred to her
that they looked scared. What in God's name was going on?

Squeezing Luli's hand, she said, "You're staying with me from
now on. Alright?"

The tears still threatened to spill. Heaven help her if he started
bawling! How did one handle a bawling child? Shouting at it
probably wouldn't be acceptable. She set off for the rocks before
the dreaded contingency could come to pass. The boy tagged along
gamely, and the women exchanged a puzzled glance and followed
in her wake. So far, so good. She assumed she should talk to him,
provide some diversion, but pointing out tweety-birds and furry
rats probably wouldn't do the trick.

"Luli?" she asked.

"Yes, Lady?"

"Do you know why everybody's going up there?"

"Not everybody, Lady. Only the women and children, and the
crippled and old men who cannot carry arms anymore."

Gracious! This child was sharper than she! She'd completely
missed it, but he was right. They were hiding their women, young,
and infirm, which could only mean one thing...

"Why do you think that is?"

"The Lord Meleq is angry. He has sent out his spirit to reclaim
what is his. You shall see, Lady Siobhan." Luli kicked at a pebble
that leaped in the air and tumbled through parched grass and pine
needles and came to rest between the roots of a tree. Then he gazed up at her, a sly little grin on his face. "The Lord Spirit shall free
us. And then he shall unleash Meleq's wrath on the Phrygians. You
shall see."

The Lord Spirit was more likely to unleash his own wrath once
he discovered that his Colonel had disappeared. But if the boy was
right and the Tyreans had come, hopefully they would be in time to
find the man, rather than merely his body.

Despite the sweltering heat, Dr. Kelly shivered.

If at first you don't succeed, die and die and die and die and die
and die and die again.

Jack O'Neill took a slow breath and opened his eyes. A rock
chamber, smudges of absurdly warm light quivering on walls
and ceiling, and a sallow, narrow raptor's face above him. Right
and wrong. There were bits missing. He should be laid out in the
cold radiance of the sarcophagus. The face should have a fussily
trimmed beard.

No beard.

No sarcophagus.

The face pinched with concern, and that was absolutely wrong.

"Wake up, Deodatus! Do you hear me?"

Human voice, not that soulless metallic resonance...

That breath he'd sucked in and held escaped in a shudder.

Lines crinkled around hazel eyes as the face broke into a smile.
Baal had a great sense of humor. No, really. Baal smiled at anything.
A whimper, a moan, a scream...

A hard, callused hand slipped under his neck, raising his head.

"Drink!"

When had he heard that before? Something had happened.
Someone had said `Drink!' and something had -

"Drink!"

Flask. There'd been a flask. But this was a cup, and it smelled of
nothing. No. It smelled cool. Water? Water.

The cup nudged his lips, and he drank thirstily. It rinsed away
the gooey taste in his mouth. Honey... There'd been honey, and
swallowing hurt. His throat hurt, period. It felt tight and swollen.

"More?"

Jack nodded, clinging on to that ache in his throat. It made all
the difference. He'd never hurt afterwards. The sarcophagus had
seen to that. He'd been just as dazed as he was now, but he hadn't
hurt. After a few more sips, he pushed the cup aside and decided to
take a cautious sniff at what purported to be reality.

He lay on a stone bench in the chamber he remembered. The one
with the medallion and the raven and the lions. The stone bench
had grown a pillow and a blanket to keep him warm. They hadn't
killed him. At least he didn't think they had. But they were doing
their impressive best to mess with his head.

"Tertius?" Talking was less than comfortable, and he sounded
like he'd knocked back a gallon of that high-octane paint stripper
Daniel had taught the kids on Abydos to brew.