Chapter 14

"How y' feelin', sport?"

Methos yawned and stretched luxuriously in his bed roll, sighing in contentment as not a single twinge interfered with his pleasure. When O'Neill had helped him back to the field where they'd planned to camp he'd been sore, but thankfully, not in what he'd consider a great deal of pain. He'd figured he'd still be a bit stiff come morning, but there wasn't even that.

"I feel fine," he murmured in amazement, recalling the night before. "In fact, I feel great."

"Good," O'Neill grinned, throwing Methos his chiton. "Next time, don't argue so much and I'll give you a lollipop."

Methos rolled his eyes and slipped the tunic over his head. "There won't be a next time," he said. "We can't replace Ibuprofen. I won't let you empty the med kit just because I have a few aches and pains."

"Wasn't from the kit," O'Neill told him as he rolled up his blankets. "That came from my own personal stash."

Methos looked up, surprised. As he recollected, modern soldiers never gave up their private caches of pain killers - not unless the Sergeant was dying, or their best buddy was gut shot, or something equally horrendous. For themselves, there was always a little more pain they could tolerate, a bit more discomfort they were willing to endure. And O'Neill went on to confirm this observation.

"I never take all the pain meds Fraiser gives me. But I've learned over the years to keep some stuff on hand. Just in case."

"Smart," Methos nodded, vaguely wondering how he'd managed to achieve best buddy status, because from the way O'Neill generally treated him, he certainly wasn't the feared and revered Drill Sergeant. Unless, of course, one considered the other option. Perhaps the colonel thought of him as the annoying kid brother who needed lots of looking after. Now there was an unsettling thought.

"We done here?" O'Neill asked, grabbing his pack as Methos stood, tossing his cloak over his shoulders.

"Almost," he responded, pinning his himation about his shoulders. "We need supplies for the road and a few more things to complete our little ruse, then we can leave."

O'Neill heaved a sigh of resignation as they started back toward the market and Methos hid a smile. He imagined the colonel was dreaming of nice airy shopping malls with food courts and canned music. Instead, Methos found an open stall selling a proper farmer's breakfast of hard boiled eggs, goat cheese, bread, raw onions and wine mixed with three parts water.

They ate it hunkered against a wall watching the sun come up and the town come to life. Shops opened, slaves came down to the wells to fetch water for the households, farmers with tools on their shoulders headed out into the fields, and pack animals with their burdens carried goods to and fro while sleepy children rode their backs making their morning deliveries. A day like any other Methos had seen repeated in a thousand variations for as long as he could remember. And, he supposed, it was the same in the future. Though the shops opened at the slothful hour of nine or ten, the farmers had tractors or trucks, and goods came to brightly lit, scrupulously clean supermarkets in big rigs driven by adults. Still, it was the same old dance, if dressed in new clothes.

They finished eating and stood, Methos rubbing his stomach to ease the passage of the onion. He still loved the taste of them raw, but he'd forgotten just what a whole one, even as small as that one had been, did to him.

O'Neill caught the movement and shook his head. "Don't tell me," he sighed. "You've got heartburn."

Methos only shrugged. "Onions were thought to be good for the digestion," he explained as the colonel once again delved into his pack.

"Meet Mr. Tums," O'Neill said, handing him a very large pink tablet. "He's an old friend. Remind me to introduce you to his good buddy Uncle Pepcid when we get home."

Methos looked aghast at the size of the thing. "I can't swallow that!"

"Trust me, if it's pink and smells like a cherry you can chew the sucker."

Well, it didn't smell like a cherry to Methos, but he nibbled the edge and didn't find it too horrible. It was chalky, but sweet and slightly tart so he ate it. A few minutes later he was astonished to find the burning in his stomach gone.

"You know," he said as they reached the open market. "I'm beginning to rethink my stance on the usefulness of modern medicine for Immortals. If it won't kill us permanently, we tend to just tough it out. Now I'm not so sure. I might even go back to medical school," he added enthusiastically. "You know, I've always wanted to do a heart transplant. Or maybe kidneys. Those are interesting, too."

O'Neill just stared at him. "Could we focus here," the colonel pointedly reminded. "Remember? Mission. Egypt. End of world. Kinda puts a damper on the whole Ben Casey thing, don't y' think?"

"But we're here," Methos smiled, nodding at the nearest stall.

"We came back to buy jewelry?!" O'Neill whispered angrily.

"But it's for Daniel, Teal'c and Carter," Methos told him, looking wounded.

O'Neill rubbed his face with a hand. "Is this something I need to be here for?" he finally asked.

"Not really," Methos responded, hiding a smile. "I also have to buy more clothes for us. Something really ostentatious this time."

"Great, more skirts," O'Neill sighed. "You have fun. I'm gonna watch the big sweaty guys making armor."

Methos laughed and hurriedly reached under his chiton to pull out a few coins for Jack. "Enjoy yourself," he smiled. "And don't pay more than half what I just gave you, unless it's a full set of armor with a thick quilted padding and good leather straps."

He'd never buy it, Methos knew as the colonel sauntered off looking relieved. Not when he learned he'd have to strip for the measuring and have parts of his body shaved for the molding - then wait several weeks to get the finished product back. But they could always use a couple of good shields and O'Neill was sensible enough to do just that. Besides, he thought, turning to examine a set of earrings he'd had his eye on, learning how to handle money and be at ease in a crowd was just as important as knowing how to trounce the enemy on the field of battle.


The sun was just beginning to dip into the western sky as Methos stood watching the slaves bring a steady stream of goods and supplies out to the ox cart. It stood just a quarter mile from the last house that could be considered a part of the town, but the streets had been too narrow for Methos to even consider bringing it inside. Still, it was a common enough occurrence for the shopkeepers not to worry over, especially during the spring market.

As soon as the cart was loaded the overseer who'd sold them the oxen came by and Methos handed him a coin. The man had done a very good job buying the cart, which even had it's own small awning for when the women were traveling. And after giving the overseer the rest of the money for the oxen along with his fee, the man had offered to direct the slaves bringing out their supplies. Certainly, Methos could have done it himself, but he wasn't much interested in directing slaves at the moment. He was thinking about his new horses.

Five days, maybe six to get back to camp since they'd have to stick to the main roads, and at least two weeks to get the horses ready. Not to mention teaching the others how to ride virtually bareback. A leather saddle pad was not at all the same as a modern saddle. And without stirrups, which hadn't yet been invented, sitting a horse meant the knees did most of the painful work of holding the rider up.

When both the overseer and the slaves were gone, he looked over at O'Neill, who was lying on his back sprawled across the grain sacks, playing with a long blade of sweet grass stuck between his teeth. He'd done well at the armorer's. Buying a decent pair of shields, plain enough for real soldiers to be carrying, and one ridiculously ornamental one covered in flying sea creatures chased in silver, with wings and tails that swept up and away from its surface. Not the least bit useful in a real fight, where all those pretty fetishes could easily catch a sword tip. If Methos hadn't known better he'd have thought Jack knew exactly what he was planning.

"Hey, Yanos!" Methos called up and Jack glanced down. "Think you can watch the cart for a while?"

"Oh, yeah!" O'Neill said as he sat up and nodded, fingering one of a pair of small daggers he'd also purchased. The other was strapped to the inside of his forearm. "Not a problem."

At that, Methos grinned and hurried off to fetch his prize.

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