Ides of March (Time Patrol) Read online

  Ides of March

  TIME PATROL

  BOB MAYER

  "Who controls the past controls the future; who controls the present controls the past." George Orwell: 1984.

  Dedication

  For

  Haydn Riker Cavanaugh

  Where The Time Patrol Ended Up This Particular Day: 15 March

  “The vicissitudes of fortune, which spares neither man nor the proudest of his works, which buries empires and cities in a common grave.”

  Edward Gibbon. The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire.

  Rome, Roman Empire, 44 B.C.

  MOMS HELD A WARM LIVER ABOVE her head in supplication, dark blood oozing around her fingers, running down her arms into her armpits.

  It tickled.

  She wasn’t sure for whom or why she was holding it up.

  Moms remained still, but her eyes darted about, checking out the immediate situation, her ears attuned for any noise. Distant, muffled sounds, nothing specific. She sniffed? Death, which was to be expected, given the fresh blood. She was inside a dark chamber, the only light coming from a round opening in the ceiling. A sheep, the source of the smell and blood, was on a dais in front of her. A knife was stuck in the opening carved in its side. A woman stood on the other side of the carcass. Her white robe trimmed with gold was splattered with blood. She was staring intently at the liver, head leaning to the side, pale blue eyes unblinking. She had pure white hair and a face lined with age, with very pale skin.

  Moms figured such rapt attention meant she should keep her position. The blood finished draining. It was slowly drying on her skin, not quite ticklish any more, rather a bit bothersome, especially as it drew forth memories for Moms. Of performing triage on soldiers, comrades, who’d been wounded in battle, desperately trying to keep them alive for medevac. Often succeeding, but failing too often. Once is too often.

  “Put it down, Amata,” the woman snapped, pulling Moms out of her dark memories, which were yet to be made in terms of the planet’s timeline, but she couldn’t dwell on that, because down that path lay madness.

  Amata? Then it was there, in her consciousness. Not her name, but a label: a woman in training to be a Vestal Virgin. A bit late on that, Moms thought, although Mac had found it hilarious during the mission briefing, until Scout had cut that short.

  It is 44 B.C. The world’s population is roughly 160 million humans. It is the year of the consulship of Caesar and Antony; Pharaoh Ptolemy XIV of Egypt dies; the first of Cicero’s Philippics attacking Marc Antony is published.

  Moms had blood on her hands.

  Some things change; some don’t.

  Moms placed the liver on a silver tray. The old woman walked around the dais, leaning heavily on a cane.

  She leaned over and poked at the liver with a finger. “See that?”

  “Yes,” Moms said, seeing only liver.

  “Ah!” the woman hissed. “I told Caesar to beware the Ides. But this? This is different.”

  Spurinna. Moms knew the woman’s name, except history had recorded the seer who warned Caesar as a man, not a woman.

  Such is history’s presumptive misogyny, Moms thought.

  “Different how, Spurinna?” Moms asked.

  The old woman didn’t look up from the liver, continuing to poke and prod. “Marc Antony. He must do his duty and save mighty Caesar today, since I fear my warning will not be heeded. It is Antony’s destiny. He must be told.” She gazed into Moms’ eyes. “And you are not an Amata.”

  Spurinna snatched the sacrificial knife and held it to Moms’ throat.

  Petrograd, Russia, 1917 A.D.

  “PLEASE DON’T!” DOC PLEADED.

  The Tsarina was startled by Doc’s shout. “How dare you enter my chambers!”

  It was not phrased as a question, but an admonition from someone who was used to having her every word obeyed from the moment she could speak.

  Her four girls were kneeling, their heads bowed, and lips moving in silent prayer to the mixture of orthodoxy and subsequent mysticism that had consumed their mother. The Tsarina held her frail boy in her arms. While one hand cradled his head, the other clenched a small knife, the point pressed against her son’s forearm. Prince Alexei’s eyes were closed and he wasn’t reacting to the pressure.

  It is 1917. The world’s population is roughly one billion, eight hundred and sixty million, although the First World War, the War to End All Wars, is taking a chunk out of that, well on its way to totaling twenty million dead; J.R.R. Tolkien begins writing The Book of Lost Tales; in the U.S. imprisoned suffragettes from the Silent Sentinels are beaten in what became known as the Night of Terror; the first Pulitzer prizes are awarded; Mata Hari is arrested for spying; John F. Kennedy is born; a race riot in St. Louis leaves 250 dead.

  This was Doc’s first Time Patrol mission and it wasn’t looking good.

  Some things change; some don’t.

  “Don’t do it, Tsarina.” Doc attempted a calmer tone, realizing he was speaking Russian, not exactly the greatest revelation at the moment.

  “I must,” Alexandra said. “For all of Russia. Only then, will my dear Nicholas listen and the people understand. It is what Rasputin prophesied.” She nicked her son’s skin and blood flowed.

  More blood than Doc had ever seen from such a simple cut, but this was the curse of the Royal Disease.

  Palos de la Frontera, Spain, 1493 A.D.

  “WHERE’S THE BAND? THE KING? THE QUEEN? The Sons of Italy?” Mac muttered. He was watching a small ship riding its anchor chain in the muddy backwash of an estuary formed by the confluence of two rivers.

  The names of the ships that had left here on a voyage of discovery the previous year ran through his brain, echoing from the historical rhyme of his childhood: The Nina and the Pinta and the Santa Maria.

  But there was only one ship here: the Nina.

  His download confirmed that the Santa Maria had run aground off Haiti on Columbus’ journey. The Pinta? It would arrive shortly; if history remained true.

  Mac couldn’t believe men traveled in such small ships across the ocean. He was standing just above the mud flats on the south bank of the estuary. Behind him were a number of low buildings. To his right, on a low rocky bluff overlooking the merging of the two rivers, was a friary, a watchtower poking above the walls. To his left, the estuary opened to the Atlantic Ocean.

  “Devotio Moderna?”

  Mac turned. The man who’d addressed him was dressed in a plain brown robe, with a rope cinched around the waist. A small wooden cross dangled from it. Given that was exactly the way Mac was dressed, it wasn’t much of a leap on the other’s part.

  “Yes. Devotio Moderna.”

  “I am Geert. From Belgium. Welcome to Palos de la Frontera.”

  “I’m Mac.”

  Geert cocked his head. “’Mac’? That is all?”

  “That is all.”

  Geert had thinning blond hair and was several inches shorter than Mac, his face scarred from smallpox. He was slight of build, lost inside his monk’s robe. “They should give a better name before they send you back. Welcome to my time.”

  Mac relaxed. But only slightly, remembering Scout’s debriefing that the first supposed Time Patrol agent in her last mission had worked for the Shadow and tried to kill her. Along with the second supposed agent. They’d really had it in for her, Mac thought. He hoped her trip this time was smoother. “It’s only for twenty-four hours. My name is not important.”

  “True,” Geert acknowledged. He nodded at the ship. “Columbus arrived from Lisbon an hour ago. It is odd he went to Portugal first. Many are speaking of it, considering Ferdinand and Isabella financed his journey, not King John.”

&n
bsp; It is 1493 A.D. The world’s population is roughly 425 million humans; there had been 450 million 150 years ago, but the Black Death had done some damage and the world still hadn’t recovered; England imposes sanctions on Burgundy for supporting a pretender to the English throne; Maximilian I succeeds his father, Frederick III, as Holy Roman Emperor; Russian Prince Andrey Bolshoy dies; Spain, having issued the Edict of Alhambra the previous year which demanded all Jews convert or be expelled, begins to suffer economically without many of it most successful and influential citizens.

  “Why am I here?” Mac asked. His head was throbbing, not just from the knowledge downloaded before coming back, but also from a tremendous hangover.

  Some things change; some don’t.

  “You know what is supposed to happen,” Geert said. “I only know what has happened and a little of what is happening. Columbus is on board the Nina. He has allowed no one to disembark yet, which is strange because a number of the crew are from the town.”

  That explained the group of women and children who were gathered at a small quay, talking angrily and peering at the ship.

  “Why has no one come ashore?” Mac asked.

  “I have no clue,” Geert said. “There are people visible on deck, but otherwise—” he shrugged. “And there is also that.” Geert looked past Mac.

  Fifty meters away, six men clad in black doublets and hose were seated at a wood table outside a shabby building that appeared to be an inn, bar and eating establishment.

  The men weren’t sleeping, drinking, or eating. They were gazing at the ship. They had rapiers sheathed at their waists and a demeanor Mac was familiar with, being one himself: Soldiers. Killers who knew their business; one who has served in an elite unit can always tell the difference.

  “Who are they?” Mac asked.

  “They’re from the Centre Suisses,” Geert said.

  “The Hundred Swiss?” Through the fog of receding alcohol, the pertinent information materialized.

  “Swiss mercenaries,” Geert said. “They fight for whatever Crown will pay them. These particular ones? They’ve been sent by Rome.”

  “Why are they here?”

  Geert spread his hands. “Who knows? Protect Columbus, perhaps?”

  “From who?”

  Geert looked at him. “Perhaps from us? You tell me. In your history, does he die today? Or does he live? Are we to help him live or let him die? Or kill him ourselves?” His hand strayed inside a slit in his robe to show Mac the hilt of a dagger. “Life or death. Just let me know what it is to be.”

  Thermopylae, Greece, 480 B.C.

  “IF THE WORDS OF YOUR ORACLE are true, this is my final night.” The speaker, without any apparent concern in his tone about their grave situation, was clad in armor that was battered, bent, and freshly splattered with blood. He was lying on his back, looking up at the stars, a rolled up red cloak acting as an expedient pillow. His helmet was on the ground next to him, as ordinary as any other warrior’s, except for the stiff brush of horse hair indicating his rank: King.

  Scout could smell the death. Worse, she could sense it, all around them. She was sitting on a stone, her dark cloak wrapped tight, one hand holding a Naga staff. On the narrow pass between the mountain and the cliff overlooking the Malian Gulf, small groups of warriors were gathered round fires, conversing softly. A wall composed of bodies and stones hastily piled together, blocked the way to the north. A handful of Spartans stood watch on the grisly bulwark.

  There had been three hundred Spartans when this fight began several days ago.

  Not many were left standing.

  Scout realized King Leonidas was staring at her. “What say you, priestess of the Oracle of Delphi? What of the prophecy?”

  “The words are true,” Scout said, but didn’t add: If my mission today succeeds. Which naturally led to the next thought: Of course, it would be nice to know exactly what the mission was.

  “The way you paused,” Leonidas said. “It almost gave me hope. But it’s strange. Before every battle, I have felt fear. Of being maimed. Killed. Most of all defeated. But no matter how dire the fight appeared, or how terrible the odds, I always believed deep inside that none of those would happen.” He sat up and looked at his soldiers. “We all know we’ll die one day. Everyone does. In battle or of disease or inevitably of old age. But it’s always in the future. Not today.”

  Leonidas reminded Scout of Nada. Despite what the king was saying and the circumstances, there was calmness surrounding him, a steadiness that inspired confidence. It was reflected by the remaining Spartans. Even though they’d all experienced enough battles to know what awaited them in the morning, prophecy, or no prophecy, they were poised. There was no sense of panic. Military reality dictated they were at the breaking point; as their number dwindled with each death, King Xerxes of Persia had an endless supply of warriors to throw against them.

  The Spartans were speaking in subdued tones, no bragging. Having conversations that only the prospect of imminent death could unlock from deep within a man’s soul.

  “When you take this map,” Leonidas said, “will you stay with it or do you deliver it somewhere?”

  “I will know when I have it.” So, this was about a map, Scout thought. Dane had been vague in the briefing, but that went to the essence of this battle against the Shadow’s attempts to change the timeline.

  “And after you fulfill whatever task has been laid on you, will you go back to the Oracle?”

  “I don’t know my fate.” That, at least, was true.

  “If you survive somehow and stay in Greece, will you do me a favor?”

  “Yes, if it is within my power.”

  Leonidas smiled. “I believe it is indeed within your power. Go to my home. Tell my wife how I died.”

  “I can do that,” Scout lied.

  “I’m not done yet,” Leonidas said. “I have grown to admire you during our journey here from the Oracle. I want you to teach my daughter.”

  Scout had no clue what had happened on that journey. “What would you like me to teach her?”

  “To be like you.”

  Scout hated this next lie. “I will.”

  It is 480 B.C. The world’s population is roughly 100 million humans. Troops from Rome, far from being an Empire yet, march against the Vientes, the richest Etruscan tribe; Zhong You, a disciple of Confucius dies; the Imperial Treasury at the Persepolis Palace in Persia is completed after three decades of work; artists begin the detail ‘Musicians and Dancers’ on the wall paintings in the Tomb of the Lionesses in Tarquinia, Italy; it will be completed a decade later.

  Scout sensed a presence. She got to her feet.

  Some things change; some don’t.

  “What is it?” Leonidas was up, putting his helmet on. “The Persians come in the dark?”

  “No.” Scout took a step toward the grisly barricade of Persian bodies and stones. “Someone like me.”

  “The Sibyl Pandora that the Oracle spoke of?” Leonidas asked.

  Scout shivered and realized the danger she faced was not Xerxes, or his troops, or even the pending battle. The Shadow had sent one with the Sight against her: Pandora.

  Newburgh, New York, 1783 A.D.

  THE WHIP RIPPING INTO flesh made a distinctive sound. Eagle was jolted by the sound and the immediate scream of agony. He lunged forward, made two steps, and was tripped. He sprawled face down into straw covered dirt, hearing the whip strike home once more.

  “Easy,” a deep voice hissed. “Easy.”

  A hand was on Eagle’s back, not keeping him down, but slowing him from jumping up, forcing him to take in his situation. The hand belonged to an older black man, who was now kneeling next to Eagle, shaking his head ever so slightly.

  Behind them were four other black men, standing shoulder to shoulder. They were inside a barn, the horses skittish in their bays. The other slaves glanced askance at him, before returning their attention to the lesson being inflicted.

  The source of the scre
am was a young black woman, her wrist shackles hooked on a spike high enough over her head to put her on her toes and keep her in place. She was twisting and cringing, as much as she could, but the mark for the man holding the whip was impossible to miss: her naked back.

  Which was crisscrossed with old scars, now being torn asunder once more.

  The source of the whip was a short, squat redheaded man who was doing this with the nonchalance of someone performing a task he’d done countless times before. His face was blank, and a corncob pipe dangled from one side of his mouth. He took a puff between each stroke.

  It is 1783 A.D. The world’s population is roughly 900 million, of which only 3.6 million are part of the fledgling United States, announced seven years ago on the 4th of July; even though fighting with Britain had stopped, the war was technically not over on the 15th of March; that would happen in September with the Treaty of Paris; Catherine the Great of the Russian Empire annexes the Crimean Khanate, finishing off the final remnant of the Mongol Golden Horde; the last celebration of Massacre Day is held in Boston; the first public demonstration of a parachute jump is done in France by a man leaping from an observatory; the 1783 Great Meteor passes over the North Sea, Great Britain and France prompting fear and scientific speculation; the Cedula of Population is made into law in Spain, allowing any who swears fealty to Spain and the Catholic Church to settle in Trinidad and Tobago.

  Eagle was in a place he had no desire to be.

  Some things change; some don’t.

  “I do not take pleasure from this,” another man said. The early afternoon sun streaming through the barn door silhouetted his tall figure, easily over six feet. “It is the law and we must respect the law. It is what makes us a nation. You all know this is only a last resort. But she did not just attempt to run away. She tried to go to the British carrying some of my correspondence. That is treason and I have had white men executed for less. I am being merciful.”