Hittite Kingdom in those days," Levi said.
"Not much is known of the place before Caesar's fellow triumvir Pompey
built a city here called Megalopolis, or Big Town. Around the end of the first
century, though, the name was changed to Sebasteia, deriving from sebastos ,
a Greek translation of the title assumed by the first Roman emperor, Augustus.
The current name evolved from that. The name Sebastian originally meant, 'a man
from Sivas.'"
"Wow," Tommy said. "You mean everybody named Sebastian's named
after this dump?"
Levi smiled and bobbed his head. "Yes. Exactly."
The Young Wolves looked at him as if they didn't know what to make of him, as
if a winged squirrel had landed in their midst or something. Annja didn't think
they'd normally be the types to take too kindly to being lectured by a know-it-all.
Especially one who happened to be a Jew. Yet if anything they had been well
trained to obedience, and Rabbi Leibowitz had been hired by their master
Charlie precisely to know it all.
Anyway, unlike way too many intellectuals and academics of Annja's experience,
there was no smug air of superiority about Levi when he engaged in one of his
info-dumps. It all came out matter-of-factly. If you asked what he knew, he
politely told you. And her associates from New York were staring at the rabbi
about the same way the acolytes were.
"No fooling?" Josh asked, a little weakly.
"No fooling," Levi said solemnly.
Annja was with Tommy. She hadn't known about the origin of the name Sebastian,
either. She disagreed about his opinion of Sivas, though. She could see how
he'd be a bit prejudiced right now. The adrenaline rush of their early-hour
escape from the potential death-trap of the Sheraton Tower had subsided into
the usual ash-and-cold-water gruel of depression and vague dissatisfaction; the
sudden vengeful fall of winter further chilling their spirits; and the
encounter with the surly, heavily armed National Police more a cattle-prod
shock to the fear gland than anything to produce even another temporary
adrenaline-dump high.
All that, plus the not-very-inspiring nature of the closed truck-stop café, may
have colored his judgment on Sivas. Or not. The city lay in a wide valley along
the Kizilirmak or Red River, amid wide winter-fallow grain fields and sprawling
factories, whose lighting, actinic blue through blowing snow, suggested they
never lay fallow. It might have been a pleasant setting in spring.
A gust of wind threw some larger clumps of snow against the big front window,
making everybody jump and turn. The door opened, admitting a swirl of wintry
air. Charlie Bostitch stomped in, hugging himself and blowing, followed by Leif
Baron and Mr. Atabeg. Larry Taitt brought up the rear like a puppy following
its humans. Charlie wore a tan London Fog trench coat, Larry a black version of
same, Baron a bulky jacket and a pair of earmuffs clamped over his bald dome.
Atabeg wore just his suit and fez and seemed comfortable as well as
indefatigably cheery.
"Well, we're good for the night," Baron announced, moving into the
center of the room. "We won't have to show our passports, either."
"Under the circumstances," the local guide said, "the management
saw the wisdom of such a course of action. Atabeg helped them see the way, of
course."
"Whatever," Jason said. He stood up out of a booth. "So who's
cooking?"
"We can play rock-paper-scissors for it," Tommy said, holding up a
fist.
Baron showed teeth in a brief smile. "Not necessary. Zeb and Jeb—kitchen.
See what they've got and report back."
The twins disappeared into the kitchen. One of them came back a moment later.
He was still wearing his heavy jacket open over a blue shirt. So was his
brother, so it was no use for identification purposes.
"They have ground beef in the freezer and even burger buns," he
reported.
"It's a truck stop," Trish said to no one in particular. "What'd
you expect?"
"Something Eastern European, given most of the long-range lorry drivers on
this
"Not much is known of the place before Caesar's fellow triumvir Pompey
built a city here called Megalopolis, or Big Town. Around the end of the first
century, though, the name was changed to Sebasteia, deriving from sebastos ,
a Greek translation of the title assumed by the first Roman emperor, Augustus.
The current name evolved from that. The name Sebastian originally meant, 'a man
from Sivas.'"
"Wow," Tommy said. "You mean everybody named Sebastian's named
after this dump?"
Levi smiled and bobbed his head. "Yes. Exactly."
The Young Wolves looked at him as if they didn't know what to make of him, as
if a winged squirrel had landed in their midst or something. Annja didn't think
they'd normally be the types to take too kindly to being lectured by a know-it-all.
Especially one who happened to be a Jew. Yet if anything they had been well
trained to obedience, and Rabbi Leibowitz had been hired by their master
Charlie precisely to know it all.
Anyway, unlike way too many intellectuals and academics of Annja's experience,
there was no smug air of superiority about Levi when he engaged in one of his
info-dumps. It all came out matter-of-factly. If you asked what he knew, he
politely told you. And her associates from New York were staring at the rabbi
about the same way the acolytes were.
"No fooling?" Josh asked, a little weakly.
"No fooling," Levi said solemnly.
Annja was with Tommy. She hadn't known about the origin of the name Sebastian,
either. She disagreed about his opinion of Sivas, though. She could see how
he'd be a bit prejudiced right now. The adrenaline rush of their early-hour
escape from the potential death-trap of the Sheraton Tower had subsided into
the usual ash-and-cold-water gruel of depression and vague dissatisfaction; the
sudden vengeful fall of winter further chilling their spirits; and the
encounter with the surly, heavily armed National Police more a cattle-prod
shock to the fear gland than anything to produce even another temporary
adrenaline-dump high.
All that, plus the not-very-inspiring nature of the closed truck-stop café, may
have colored his judgment on Sivas. Or not. The city lay in a wide valley along
the Kizilirmak or Red River, amid wide winter-fallow grain fields and sprawling
factories, whose lighting, actinic blue through blowing snow, suggested they
never lay fallow. It might have been a pleasant setting in spring.
A gust of wind threw some larger clumps of snow against the big front window,
making everybody jump and turn. The door opened, admitting a swirl of wintry
air. Charlie Bostitch stomped in, hugging himself and blowing, followed by Leif
Baron and Mr. Atabeg. Larry Taitt brought up the rear like a puppy following
its humans. Charlie wore a tan London Fog trench coat, Larry a black version of
same, Baron a bulky jacket and a pair of earmuffs clamped over his bald dome.
Atabeg wore just his suit and fez and seemed comfortable as well as
indefatigably cheery.
"Well, we're good for the night," Baron announced, moving into the
center of the room. "We won't have to show our passports, either."
"Under the circumstances," the local guide said, "the management
saw the wisdom of such a course of action. Atabeg helped them see the way, of
course."
"Whatever," Jason said. He stood up out of a booth. "So who's
cooking?"
"We can play rock-paper-scissors for it," Tommy said, holding up a
fist.
Baron showed teeth in a brief smile. "Not necessary. Zeb and Jeb—kitchen.
See what they've got and report back."
The twins disappeared into the kitchen. One of them came back a moment later.
He was still wearing his heavy jacket open over a blue shirt. So was his
brother, so it was no use for identification purposes.
"They have ground beef in the freezer and even burger buns," he
reported.
"It's a truck stop," Trish said to no one in particular. "What'd
you expect?"
"Something Eastern European, given most of the long-range lorry drivers on
this
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