Ides of March (Time Patrol)

by Bob Mayer

  In other words, Scout thought: bad stuff. Sort of what she felt right now.

  It was legend, myth, probably embellished and twisted over the course of time, but Scout knew at the core of every legend there was truth. Because reality was much stranger than the average person knew. The members of her team had run into many myths, legends, and unbelievably twisted science, that they’d learn to expect anything. Yet, they were still surprised at times.

  Of course, as in many legends and stories, men liked to lay the cause of all ills at a woman’s feet. From Eve to Pandora. And men wrote the history.

  As if a man would listen to a woman.

  Scout was startled as an affiliated piece of data flashed through her consciousness: the only thing left behind in Pandora’s box was Elpis. Hope.

  Hope. Sometimes it was all humans had in the face of overwhelming odds.

  But Pandora had shut the lid, locking hope inside. Only evil had come forth from her jar, pithos, box, whatever.

  Scout felt the echoes of the past, along with pulses reverberating back from the future. Even when there was no hope, mankind still persevered. She observed as Leonidas went from campfire to campfire, talking in a low voice, putting a comforting hand on a Spartan’s shoulder, giving them hope in a hopeless situation.

  Something came out of all of this, Scout realized. Some power. A power that pushed back the Shadow. She didn’t know how, but it was affirmed by the faint presence of the real Cyra, outside the bubble of this day. It was as if she were out there, hovering, waiting to resume her role in her time and place and Scout was just a visitor that Cyra had allowed in for this brief, but critical time.

  Lightning flashed to the east, over the water, followed by the rumble of thunder. A storm was approaching. Scout slowly walked to the barricade of dead flesh and rock. There were sentries, of course. Scout remembered the encounter with police officer near Cleopatra’s needle. She’d just acted, knowing they needed the cop gone without incident and that Moms and Neeley pulling badges were just making him more interested in trying to figure out what was going on.

  Instinct. Drawing on something, she’d always had but not been aware of. It was a strength, a power, which Nada had sensed during the Fun in North Carolina, which seemed a lifetime ago.

  She’d done it again, just now, with Leonidas. And for that, she felt guilty. Trust was something to be earned, not conjured. But there was no time.

  Scout halted just behind the wall. There was a sentry to her left and one to her right, both peering down the pass toward the distant plain where the Persian army was massed. The fires ahead were so many they lit the northern sky like a false dawn. It was only the narrowness of the pass that had allowed the Spartans to hold the line this long as Xerxes was only able to send a limited number of soldiers against them at one time.

  Scout closed her eyes. Concentrated. Opened them and climbed up.

  Her foot slipped on viscera, falling forward, her forehead striking a stone. A trickle of blood flowed. Scout continued up, to the top, and then over.

  Neither sentry gave the alarm.

  The narrow pass continued for about fifty meters, before widening and descending. Scout swallowed hard. It would be impossible for her to go forward without walking on top of a macabre carpet. The bottom layer were Egyptian corpses, who had attacked on the first day. Then the Immortals on the second day. Xerxes’ elite corps of soldiers, 10,000 strong. And despite the dead who littered this battlefield, Scout knew from her download that there were exactly 10,000 Immortals this evening as every man lost was immediately replaced. She wondered if Xerxes even counted the dead if the living in his Immortals were always 10,000? On top, from the fighting yesterday, Scythians, from Eurasia, part of an ongoing tribute given by their country to Persia after Xerxes father had invaded their country. Many of the Scythians had arrows in their backs and Scout knew, from the vague part of her that had Cyra’s memories, that Xerxes, had, in frustration, ordered his archers to continue to fire as his troops closed on the Spartans.

  Scout fell several times, feet slipping on blood, flesh and exposed internal organs. She realized the best footing was to step from helmet and armor to helmet and armor.

  Despite being ready, Scout was startled as a woman’s voice floated out of the darkness from ahead.

  “I can see you.”

  Scout stopped and looked up, about. Just darkness and the bright glow of the Persian camp.

  “But you can’t see me.” Pandora was surprised. Her voice was low, but one that reached far; not just distance, but into the mind. “Strange. I can sense the Sight in you but you cannot see.”

  There was nothing for a few moments and Scout remained still, each foot on a helmet.

  “Ah! They send but a girl. Should that be an insult? Or a sign of desperation? Or is it something else?”

  “Show yourself,” Scout said.

  “I have, but you can’t see. You’re not Cyra. She would be able to see me.”

  “You are Pandora,” Scout said.

  “Not a difficult guess since all have heard of me. What is your name?”

  “My name is my own.”

  The laughter was louder than the voice. “You have a point. It is not a name anyone will remember. My name, though, is legend. All have heard of me. I assume that is still true in whatever time you come from.”

  And then Scout saw her in a flash of lightning. A tall, willowy figure that didn’t seem quite solid, coming out of the darkness, walking over the bodies as if her feet were barely touching.

  In the next flash, Scout could see that Pandora had thick black hair with a shocking, single streak of white flowing from above her left eye, all the way down to the end over her left shoulder. Pandora had a Naga staff in her hand. Not in threatening manner; in fact, she put the seven-headed snake end on the ground and leaned on it. She cocked her head, peering at Scout. A half-smile creased her lips. “You are quite pretty. And quite flawed. Like this,” she indicated the streak in her hair, “except the flaw is inside you. A weakness you’ll never overcome. It will destroy you, sooner or later. I have a strong suspicion it will be sooner. Now. Your name?”

  “Scout.”

  “Scout? What a strange name to be given at birth.”

  “I was given it long after my birth.” Scout remembered Nada bequeathing her team name in North Carolina, putting it to the vote and the entire team accepting her.

  The first group that had ever accepted her into their ranks.

  Scout tried to look past Pandora, but could see little in the dark; just the glow of thousands of camp fires from the Persians.

  “We are out of bow range of both the Spartans and the Persians,” Pandora said. “They do not fight at night. It is difficult to discern friend or foe in the dark. The Persians are not afraid of a Spartan attack.” She gave a low laugh. “They are correct in that one assumption at least. Although I believe that if Leonidas had more men he would dare to do just that; try to cut his way through the camp and kill Xerxes and end this. But even three hundred Spartans cannot defeat this many. And then there are the ten thousand Immortals surrounding Xerxes tent.”

  “Why are we meeting?” Scout asked. “Why did you reach out to me?”

  “Time is short,” Pandora said. She laughed. Even her laughter was enticing, eliciting a pull inside Scout. Motherly.

  Then Scout remembered her mother and that feeling was squelched.

  “That’s not going to work,” Scout said.

  Pandora was still. “True. True. We’ve only just met. But time is indeed short. I’ve been whispering that in Xerxes’ ear for months now, pushing him to get here in time. But he is just a man, despite all his titles.” She intoned them: “King Xerxes, son of Darius, King of Medea and Persia, ruler of Libya, Arabia, Egypt, Palestine, Ethiopia, Elam, Syria, Assyria, Cyprus, Babylonia, Chaldea, Cilicia, Thrace and Cappadocia, and most blessed of God Ahura Mazda. All that for just one man. Such is the pride of the ignorant.”

  “Why is time s
hort?” Scout asked.

  “Is it not for you?” Pandora asked. “Is not your hourglass tipped and your sand running out?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Don’t lie to me girl and I will treat you with respect. You must return the favor.”

  “Why is time short?” Scout asked once again.

  Pandora took a step closer. Scout held tight to the Naga staff, tip pointed at the other woman’s chest.

  “You don’t need that,” Pandora said.

  “You brought yours.”

  “Never show up empty-handed,” Pandora said. “That is a truism through the centuries.”

  “Is it a gift for me, then?” Scout said. “Leonidas could use it and more.”

  “He would need the more,” Pandora said. “Much more. And do you really want a gift from me?”

  Scout gave her a few points for that repartee.

  Pandora continued. “Let us be clear. You and I both know what will happen soon. Once the sun comes up, the Spartans will not see it set. But it is different for us.”

  “What do you want?” Lightning flickered. The thunder came not long afterward, indicating the storm was getting closer.

  “It is not what I want, but what you need,” Pandora said. She spun her Naga slamming the point into a body, holding up both empty hands. “We are sisters; we can work together. We are descended from what they call in this age Oracles or the Sibyls. We have always been here. Ever since the beginning.”

  “Atlantis.”

  “Yes. But men, they don’t listen. One of our sisters, Herophile, prophesized the Trojan War, but Achilles and the Greeks still sailed. That was the beginning of this conflict between east and west so many years ago. But we, our line, live a timeless existence, above the squabbles of men. Can’t you feel it?”

  “I feel cold and there’s a storm coming,” Scout said.

  “There is indeed a storm coming.”

  Scout was wondering why Pandora hadn’t simply killed her.

  “We live a timeless existence,” Pandora repeated.

  “Right. Except you just told me the clock is ticking and time is short.”

  Pandora didn’t rise to the bait. “Xerxes is a follower of Ahura Mazda. Do you know what that religion is?”

  The data began to scroll in Scout’s brain. “No.”

  “The followers believe that Ahura Mazda created seven worlds, all branching from him.” Pandora pointed at the other end of her Naga staff. “Seven is a number that comes up again and again. The oldest of the seven worlds is Asha, the Fire World. Fire is a sacred channel to eternal light. And to get to internal light, one must pass through infinite darkness.”

  “Okay,” Scout said, tired of the mumbo-jumbo. “And that has what to do with what?”

  “Do you know how those who follow Ahura Mazda believe the world will end?”

  “You talking?”

  “Humor is excellent protection against reality.”

  “I’m in reality,” Scout said.

  “Really?”

  Scout had to admit Pandora did have another point, since she was standing on the helmets of two dead men, in 480 B.C., dressed as an oracle’s priestess, holding a Naga staff, inside of a time bubble before she was pulled back to her own time.

  Pulled back if she were still alive. And for the first time, Scout wondered whether her body would be pulled back if she were dead? They’d gotten Ivar back but that was just before he had drowned.

  The two Shadow agents she’d killed had simply crumbled inward to dust.

  Then again, did it matter at that point past death what happened to the body?

  Pandora wasn’t done yet. “According to that religion, the world will end with purification by fire. A great river of flame will flow across the land and consume everything. Land, ocean, man and creature even unto heaven and hell. The entire world will be scorched and the human race annihilated except for the chosen ones. The angels of white, also known as the light travelers.”

  “Valkyries?”

  “No.”

  “Then what does all that mean?”

  The Sibyl suddenly snatched her Naga staff, pulled it out of the body, and threw it, just past Scout’s left ear.

  Scout dove to the right, twisting, landing on bodies. Seeing Pandora’s Naga hit a Valkyrie in the chest, piercing the white armor. Pandora was past Scout, grabbing the seven-headed snake hilt, twisting it, the blade tearing a huge gash in the armor.

  The white figure was floating a foot above the bodies, arms extended, foot long blades on the end of each finger. The face was smooth white except for two red bulges where the eyes should be.

  Scout leapt to her feet and slashed.

  The tip of her Naga sliced the right side of Valkyrie, just under the right arm to the hip. With a screech, the Valkyrie abruptly jerked back, like a puppet on a string, up into the darkness and was gone.

  Scout turned, to discover that the blade edge of Pandora’s Naga was on her neck.

  “I could, right now, if I wanted to,” Pandora. “I could’ve before if I’d wanted to. Have you been taught the four stages of awareness?”

  “What?” Scout was confused, not so much by the blade but the question.

  “I can tell you haven’t been,” Pandora said. “Whoever is guiding you has been a poor instructor. There is so much you do not know that you should. You deserve better because I can sense what is dormant in you. Great power. Pure.

  “The stages: First. Awareness of self. Second. Awareness of others. Third. Awareness of the world. And last, awareness beyond the world. We, the Sibyls, Seer, Oracles, whatever we are called in whatever era, live in the fourth stage, but you aren’t there yet. Not even close.”

  Then Pandora surprised her, pulling the blade back. “We are kindred spirits. We need to work together to save the world.”

  “I don’t think so,” Scout said.

  “I saved you from the Valkyrie just now. Is that not proof of my intentions?”

  “No,” Scout said, “because the Valkyrie was probably under your control.”

  Pandora laughed. “I would expect no less from one of my sisters. It was not, I assure you but I cannot convince you, correct? But ponder this, my sister. What if I’ve already accomplished what I needed to, here and now? Then there is no conflict between us. We both work for the greater good. I will help you with your task.”

  “Doubtful,” Scout said.

  “One half hour,” Pandora said. “Be here in one half hour. It will still be well before dawn, when the men will begin the killing again. I will prove my intentions to you.”

  Pandora vanished into the darkness.

  Newburgh, New York, 1783 A.D.

  EAGLE WASN’T THERE AND THEN HE was there, but he’d sort of always been there. It was the best way to explain how he arrived, becoming part of his current time and place without fanfare or excitement among those around him. He was in the bubble of this day, not before, and hopefully he wouldn’t be here afterward.

  A thought he held on to as the whip cut into the young woman’s back.

  Tripped, he sprawled face down into straw covered dirt, hearing the whip strike home once more.

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

  The hand belonged to an older black man, kneeling next to Eagle, shaking his head. Eagle looked back at the other four slaves, standing shoulder to shoulder, held back from helping by the invisible line of their status. No matter how much Eagle had prepared himself mentally for this role in this mission in the brief time he had, the reality of being thrust into this specific scenario had brought an instinctive reaction.

  It is 1783 A.D. The world’s population is roughly 900 million humans, of which only 3.6 million are part of the fledgling United States (less than one half of one percent); of the 3.6 million, approximately 600,000 are slaves (eighteen percent) and 60,00 free blacks (one point five percent); the Montgoflier brothers ‘invent flight’, demonstrating the first balloon in front King Louis XVI and Queen
Marie Antoinette (the birds were not as impressed); an English clergyman concludes that some stars might have enough gravity to prevent light from escaping and he calls them Dark Stars, later to be known as Black Holes; the Two-Headed Boy of Bengal is born and would die four years later; Laki, a volcanic fissure in Iceland, begins a series of eruptions that continue for eight months and spewed forth gas which killed over half of Iceland’s livestock, caused a famine which killed a quarter of Iceland’s humans and caused crop failures and drought around the world, killing an estimated six million people.

  Some things change; some don’t.

  “I do not take pleasure from this,” George Washington said. “It is the law and we must respect the law. It is what makes us a nation. You know this is only a last resort. But she did not attempt to just 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.”

  He gestured to the overseer. “That’s enough.” He stepped forward and looked at the other slaves. He gestured at the half-naked woman being unhooked by the oversee: “This is a waste and unnecessary.”

  Unnecessary, Eagle thought, taking a deep breath, trying to get his emotion under control. Washington might have executed white men for treason, but he didn’t own them, so he had no financial investment; killing a slave was wasting money.

  Eagle got to his feet, the man who’d tripped him also stood. Eagle stole a glance. The other slave’s gazes were downcast, so he followed suit. A bit too late as Washington’s boots appeared in front of him. He could sense the man’s presence, his aura. One of those who commanded the room, or barn, they were in.

  Eagle had to fight not to raise his eyes to look at the man who’d led this country to victory in the Revolution and would be its first President in six years. And was a slave-owner.

  “Hercules?” Washington asked.