Zealot (24 page)

“Druscilla the Emasculator, we called her. Wasn’t man nor boy on the Palatine Hill safe from her. Voracious she was, absolutely
voracious. And Petronius, that poor blind fool, had no idea what was going on. Until the day the Emasculator set her sights
on her husband’s trusted advisor.”

“Look, Marcus, you got your bloody nail. Do you want a pound of flesh now, too?”

MacLeod was intrigued. “So what happened?”

Methos jumped in before Constantine could continue. “Same old ancient saga. I certainly wasn’t the first, you can look it
up in Genesis 39—I say no, she cries rape, dead slave, game over.
End of story
, okay?”

“Well, not quite the end,” Constantine added. “Luckily, Petronius had a certain friend who heard about the incident and rescued
young Remus from the cross before he died too many times and helped him out of the country.”

“You never touched her?”

It was obvious the idea still horrified Methos. “Touch her? Are you kidding? The woman had six inches and 150 pounds on me—she
came near me, I ran like hell. And because of her overactive libido, Caligula became emperor in ’37 instead of Petronius.
All that work wasted.”

“Ah, my friend, but we who remained had to live with Caligula. I think you got your revenge after all,” Constantine noted.

Methos slumped back into the corner of the settee. “That’s the last time I got involved in politics, let me tell you.”

“So that nail in the museum is yours?” MacLeod grinned with smug satisfaction, knowing he had something he could hold over
Methos forever.

Methos knew it, too, and was less than pleased. “There, you see, MacLeod, we’ve all got our crosses to bear. I hope you’re
happy. Now, can we just move on? No amount of brandy is worth this abuse.”

As one, the three men realized there was an Immortal approaching. “Guess that’s Avram now. I’ll be right back.” Constantine
excused himself to answer the door, knocking Methos’s size twelves from the coffee table as he went by. When he was safely
out of the room, MacLeod leaned forward in his chair and whispered to Methos.

“Does Marcus know you’re really … ?” MacLeod didn’t want to say it aloud for fear of being overheard.

“Methos? Not a clue. And I’d prefer to keep it that way, if you don’t mind. Otherwise, he’ll want to put me under glass and
study me for posterity.”

Something was still bothering MacLeod. “Why did you come? Small talk with Immortals you’ve never met has never been your strong
suit.”

“Just returning a favor I owe Marcus. Besides, I’m perfectly safe. Avram Mordecai hasn’t taken a head that wasn’t in self-defense
in two thousand years. He’s too caught up in the affairs of mortals. As long as he doesn’t find out about that century I spent
as a Samaritan, I’m in no danger from him.”

Constantine ushered Avram into the study. “Avram Mordecai, Adam Pierson.” Methos reached over the back of the settee to shake
his hand, unwilling to relinquish his comfy spot. “And of course, you know MacLeod. Glass of wine? A little brandy?”

“None for me, thanks,” Avram said, seating himself on an ottoman across the room from MacLeod and Methos. Constantine offered
him the box of smokes.

“Cigar?”

Avram selected one with a smile. “Whatever your vice, Constantine’s your man.” Constantine clipped the end of the cigar for
him and handed him a lighter. “In the old days, there would have been whores in the back room,” Avram said as he lit the thing
and took a few preliminary puffs.

“Why do I never get invited to
those
parties?” Methos groused.

“So,“ Constantine said, settling back into one of the leather armchairs with his own cigar, “I hear you had something of a
near miss yesterday.”

Avram shrugged it off casually. “When you try to bargain with terrorists, you get what you deserve.” He shot a look at MacLeod.
“Don’t you agree, MacLeod?”

MacLeod wondered where this was leading. “Avram, Hamas planted that bomb, not the Palestinian people. Hamas are your terrorists.”

“These days Hamas has more Palestinian support than Arafat and his merry men do, MacLeod. What does that say about your Palestinian
people?” Avram challenged.

Constantine intervened. “What is this about, Avram?”

“Haven’t you heard, Marcus? Our good friend Duncan MacLeod is shacking up with a terrorist.”

MacLeod was angered by the accusation. “Maral Amina is not a terrorist.”

“No?” Avram said, standing so he could look MacLeod in the face. “Then what do you call her? That woman is the legal representative
of an organization whose stated purpose is the genocide of the Jewish people. You’re
shtupping
Hitler, MacLeod!”

MacLeod took a long moment. He knew any immediate response he’d make would only make matters worse, and in his present state
might prove violent. Another deep breath. “That was thirty years ago, Avram,” he said carefully. “The PLO has changed. The
Palestinians have changed.”

“People don’t change, MacLeod. Their words may change, their propaganda may change, but what’s in their hearts doesn’t change.”
Avram spoke with his body, spoke with his hands, the cigar dancing through the air. “They wanted us all dead then, they want
us all dead now. And I will not roll over and let that happen. Never again. And if you ally yourself with them, you ally yourself
against the Jews. Against me.”

MacLeod would not give in to his anger, because he knew too well that was not the way to deal with Avram. “I am not allying
myself with anyone, Avram. This is not about politics. It’s about an individual woman I happen to be seeing. And who I choose
to see is none of your damn business.”

“Not like you to pick the wrong side, MacLeod,” Avram said, arms crossed in front of him, egging him on.

“There is no right and wrong, Avram, not this time.”

“Wrong again.” Avram shook his head sadly. “Didn’t you learn anything in Warsaw?”

“Yes, I did. I learned that no one group of people has the right to oppress and destroy another people because of their ancestry
or how they choose to worship.” He kept his voice low and nonthreatening. “Or did I get that wrong, too?”

That stopped Avram for a moment, but just a moment. “Is that what you think this is about? Since when are you so naive? You’re
buying into her propaganda, lock, stock, and barrel.”

“Am I?”

Avram stepped toward him, scrutinizing him intently. As the two men sized each other up, MacLeod couldn’t help but be reminded
of their first meeting—the same hostility, the same inability to trust. Everything had changed since then, but apparently
nothing had. They regarded each other in angry silence, resolute will battling resolute will, the only sound in the room the
quiet tap, tap, tap of Methos’s foot against the carpet.

Methos could stand it no longer. “Okay, look, a priest, a rabbi, and a chihuahua went into a bar one night—”

“Pierson!” Constantine scolded.

“What?” Methos said, feigning innocence. “You all seem to be confusing what sounds to me like a pleasant roll in the hay with
the start of World War III. Chill out a little, would you? She’s just here to negotiate for a few run-down blocks of real
estate.”

Avram jumped on it. “A piece of the City of God! She has no right. It was taken from us, and now that we have it back, it
is
ours
.”

“Well, I’ll make sure to tell the Jebusites,” Methos said casually, strolling over to the decanter to freshen his drink.

“Pierson, what the devil are you talking about?” Constantine was confused by the non sequitur.

MacLeod didn’t appreciate Methos’s interjecting into his debate. “
Adam
,” he growled warningly.

“The Jebusites, the people that shepherd boy—what was his name?—David took Jerusalem from in the first place. Under your tautology,
looks like they can have their city back. Come to think of it, the Manhattan Indians may want to have a look at this, too.”

MacLeod shot him another angry look. “You stay out of this.” But Methos held his ground.

“Okay, maybe I am being facetious, but the point is, people have been fighting, and dying, over that same piece of arid hillside
for nearly five thousand years. This is not an exclusive Arab/Jew thing. It runs much deeper than that.”

Avram countered, “This isn’t about land. This is about the preservation of a people. About the protection of a way of life
that dates back thousands of years. I have dedicated my entire life to this.”

“And what about the Palestinian way of life? Does that mean nothing to you?” MacLeod said, and he was stunned by the intensity
of the hate in Avram’s dark eyes.

“What’s happened to you, MacLeod? Once you were willing to give your life to save a handful of Jews you didn’t even know.
Once you fought with us, bled with us, mourned with us.” He thrust his smoking cigar into MacLeod’s face for emphasis. “The
Duncan MacLeod I remember wouldn’t allow himself to get dragged around by his dick!”

MacLeod grabbed the cigar from Avram’s hand and ground it out with such force it crumbled into leaves. Smoke swirled around
them.

Warsaw: May 7, 1943

Smoke swirled around him, so dense he could feel it against his skin. MacLeod fought for air. For each breath of oxygen he
managed to draw in, he couldn’t stop the smoke from invading his lungs, tightening his throat. Sweat dripped down his forehead,
into his eyes, the heat intense and growing hotter. Guided by the light of an electric lantern reflected eerily from the translucent
smoke, he groped around the floor until he found a makeshift pallet. He ripped off the sheet, bit down hard on one edge of
the cloth, and pulled with all his strength. The fabric tore. He pulled off a wide strip and tied it quickly over his nose
and mouth. It couldn’t increase the amount of oxygen in the room, but it might limit the soot and ash filling his lungs.

He tore off more pieces. “Avram, here!” MacLeod called out. “Take these.” Avram appeared out of the smoke rapidly filling
the
malina
where the remnants of his unit had sought an hour’s rest and refuge. He took the cloths from MacLeod and began to pass them
out to the others holed up in the bunker.

There were eleven of them in all in the tiny room that had been dug beneath a dry goods shop on Ostrowska Street. MacLeod
and Avram; Landau, from Avram’s unit, whose arm had been broken not an hour before by a wall that collapsed from a German
shell; Rubenstein, another ZOB fighter from the unit; Miriam, who had been forced to seek refuge with their unit after a German
squadron had blocked off access to her own while she was couriering messages from Gutman; and six noncombatants—Singer the
shop owner, his wife and son, a nephew, a neighbor woman, and a small, silent boy the nephew had found wandering in the streets.

Miriam had known of the
malina
beneath Singer’s shop, and, when Avram realized they would need a safe place nearby to try to set Landau’s arm and to rest
for an hour or two until nightfall, she’d led them there. Singer and his family had welcomed the fighters happily, offered
them part of the little food they had remaining. In return, they begged for news from the outside. How went the battle?

The Germans’ most powerful weapon in the war for the Ghetto had not been their tanks or their automatic rifles or the almost
constant shelling by the cannons they’d placed just outside the Wall. The most fearsome weapon in the German arsenal had turned
out to be the flamethrower. Nearly two-thirds of the Ghetto was in flames or had already collapsed into smoldering ruin. Thousands
had been flushed from hiding and captured or shot by the Germans as they tried to surrender. Thousands more had perished in
their hidden underground bunkers, overcome by smoke and heat as the buildings above them were systematically burned to their
foundations.

Somehow, Singer’s block had been spared thus far. It wasn’t until Avram had set Landau’s arm with an improvised splint, the
other fighters had gratefully accepted a little water and some stale bread from Mrs. Singer, and MacLeod had signaled they’d
best be moving on that they heard the rushing, the roaring of the beast above them. Thick smoke began pouring through the
ventilator shafts. The shop was ablaze.

Rubenstein stumbled in from the narrow tunnel that led topside, choking on the dense air. Avram quickly tied a cloth around
the man’s nose and mouth. Rubenstein shouted to be heard above the roar of the conflagration above. “Tunnel’s clear so far.
No fire,” but he shook his head at Avram’s look of relief. “There’s a squad at the end of the street. Six or seven. They’ll
pick us off as soon as we show our heads.” Avram looked at MacLeod, anguished, out of ideas.

MacLeod looked at the Singers, who looked to him with the last bit of hope they had in their hearts. The eyes of the poor
little boy too traumatized to tell anyone his name, yet who’d somehow managed to hang on this long, seemed to bore right through
him. MacLeod faced a decision he’d hoped he’d never have to make. Would it be more merciful for these innocent souls to die
a quick death at the end of a Nazi rifle or a slower one here in the shelter they’d dug for their protection?