Chapter Text
In his thirty-two hard-lived years, the cowboy had found himself in all sorts of scrapes, but this—this was something beyond reason!
Looking around and seeing nothing but sand and strange-looking trees, he kept hoping, to the very last moment, that it was all just the liquor of old Rosie hitting his head—or maybe he’d fallen off his horse and knocked himself out. In a few moments, he’d wake up back in his tent, under the old piano in the saloon, or slung over his buddy’s horse.
But the vision didn’t fade, and the cowboy stared in disbelief at the golden plate in his hands. Then, a thought sparked in his head: perhaps the plate he’d taken from the cutthroat—whose head he’d hunted across two counties for three weeks—was something more than a mere trinket.
There he had been, face to face in a shootout with Rat Toadwine; his revolvers emptied, and the fight turned to fists. The bandit’s shoulder bag had burst open, the golden plate rolling out, and as Jedediah grabbed it—intending to bash the bastard’s skull in—his vision exploded with a blinding yellow light, like the setting sun. The next thing he knew, he was here, in a desert unknown to him.
“What the hell…” muttered the cowboy, getting to his feet and brushing off the dust, trying to make out anything that might point him in a direction—or at least tell him where, in God’s name, he was.
Aside from the plate in his hands, he found two faithful but completely empty revolvers lying in the sand, his hat blown a few yards away by the wind, and a couple of silver Mexican pesos in his pocket. Nothing more.
Still, the revolvers went back into their holsters, the runaway hat—after a short chase—found its place atop his blond head, and the cowboy decided to head east, toward where the sun rose.
By the end of the fourth hour, the trail still had no end, and the sun scorched without mercy. The heat of the burning sand forced him to loosen the red neckerchief his dear little sister had once given him, letting it hang loose. His throat burned with savage thirst.
More than once he considered tossing the heavy golden plate to hell, but aside from it, a couple of pesos, and his boots, he had nothing to trade for his life. So, wiping sweat from his brow, he pressed on—refusing to slow down or despair.
Climbing a high, rocky hill, he scanned the land for a railroad, a town, a rider—anything—even a water source. He knew from experience that even the road to a small fort could take two weeks on foot, and without supplies, one might as well start digging their sandy grave.
Seeing nothing but dry, dusty land stretching to the horizon, he fell to his knees, exhausted.
Which way now? He wouldn’t last long. Without a fire, he wouldn’t survive the night—and by tomorrow evening, coyotes would be picking at his bones.
Then—hoofbeats.
Far away, faint, almost mocking—like a trick of his weary mind.
He’d heard stories before: men in the desert, the strongest and sanest, losing their minds, hearing phantom mines clinking or ghostly voices calling—tales of the Desert Spirits that lured riders to their doom.
He even chuckled at the memory, realizing how cracked his lips had become.
But the sound didn’t fade. It grew louder—closer.
Now he could count the number of horses—real horses, damn it!
Jerking to his feet, he turned toward the sound and saw—maybe five hundred yards off—a large group of riders moving north, to his left.
Forgetting his fatigue, he waved his arms and shouted with all the strength left in his parched throat:
“Hey! Over here!!!”
He kept waving and shouting, barely able to breathe, until he saw the lead rider stop, turn toward him, say something to his companions, and gallop in his direction.
As the cowboy watched the figure approach, he began to notice something odd—too much red.
The horse thundered past him, close enough to blind him with a burst of sand.
“Quis es?” he heard a low voice say in a language he didn’t recognize.
Cursing the stranger’s manners under his breath, he squinted—and froze.
Was his vision fooling him—or was that a man in a skirt?!
He was a simple fellow, never taught much about manners, but damn it all—when a man dresses bolder than a brothel girl, even danger takes a back seat to shock. His cheeks puffed, and he burst out laughing.
The sound echoed from dune to dune as he doubled over, trying in vain to stop, not noticing that the cause of his laughter had dismounted and now stood right in front of him.
“Quomodo audes?! Rogo quis sis!”
A sword—a sword!—was suddenly pressed to his throat. Who the hell carried a sword in the age of gunpowder? Probably the same lunatic who wore a red cape and a skirt.
Jedediah’s bright face split into another grin, and he roared with laughter again, ignoring the blade.
“Holy Mary… where the hell have I landed,” he muttered, wiping tears of laughter with his leather gloves.
Taking a closer look now, he saw an ordinary man—aside from the outfit—roughly his age, with warm eyes and an expression trying hard to hide confusion behind furrowed brows. Funny, he reminded Jedediah of Father Tennessee from the fort back home—the day he confessed his first kill: a wife-murderer, whose head he’d traded for bounty money, a tenth of which he’d donated to the church that very day.
Yeah… he’d once laughed at the priest’s black robe, calling it a dress—and now his life depended on another man in a skirt. Fate sure had a twisted sense of humor.
The stranger seemed just as uneasy now, his dark brown eyes darting over Jedediah’s clothes as if he were the one out of place.
Still, the man’s attention finally drifted from the weapon—ancient but dangerous nonetheless.
“Listen, friend, I just need some water—and maybe directions to the nearest town,” Jedediah said, raising his hands peacefully to shoulder height, not daring to step back from the blade.
“Qua lingua loqueris?” the stranger sneered, tilting his chin upward.
“Oh for Christ’s sake—English? Inglés? Maybe even Mexican?” This was turning into a bad traveling circus act. The man’s blank stare, running from his hat to his boots, was getting irritating.
“Water, you hear? Una agua!” he said, gesturing vaguely with his hand.
“Aqua?”
The pronunciation was off, but he could tell he’d finally been understood.
“Yeah, that’s it! Ag-qua!” he repeated, noticing the man’s brows rise and a faint smile play at his lips.
Apparently, Jedediah’s attempt amused him. The sword slowly lowered.
“Dic mihi nomen tuum,” the stranger said next.
Catching one familiar word, Jedediah put a hand to his chest and said slowly:
“Jedediah.”
This time it was his turn to laugh—the man’s reaction to his name was priceless.
They were both clearly confused, but after the deadly silence of the desert, this strange encounter felt almost like a night by the campfire among old friends.
“Jedediah Smith,” he added, then pointed a finger at his new acquaintance. “Tu?”
The man in red straightened up proudly, puffed out his chest, and struck it with a metallic clang.
“Octavius Gaius, praefectus legionis, sum.”
So… which part was the name? Jedediah took a guess:
“Octavius?”
The man looked a bit taken aback, then nodded, smiling at last with an inquisitive glint in his eyes—a look the cowboy quietly returned.
But then Octavius’ face hardened again, brows furrowing as his gaze dropped to the cursed golden plate lying in the sand.
“Fur es!” he shouted, hostility returning in an instant. The threat of that sword now felt much less amusing.
“Hold up, partner! Don’t get your horse riled—I can explain!” Jedediah began, but before he could think of how to explain, the pommel of the sword struck his head, and the world went dark.
He didn’t see himself being thrown over a saddle, nor hear the command his soon-to-be worst enemy gave to the other riders:
“Para inscriptionem de captione scelerati. Romam revertimur!”
[Latin translations]
Quis es? — Who are you?
Quomodo audes?! Rogo quis sis! — How dare you?! I ask who you are!
Qua lingua loqueris? — What language do you speak?
Aqua — Water
Dic mihi nomen tuum — Tell me your name
Octavius Gaius, praefectus legionis, sum — I am Octavius Gaius, commander of the legions.
Fur es! — You are a thief!
Para inscriptionem de captione scelerati. Romam revertimur! — Prepare the record of the criminal’s capture. We are returning to Rome.