Ides of March (Time Patrol)

by Bob Mayer

  The blade pressed deeper into her skin. “What happened?”

  “I met Pandora,” Scout said. She decided to skip to the headline, or at least what Leonidas would consider the headline. “We killed Xerxes’ Dagger. He came after us. He wanted to kill us.”

  “He and I have that in common,” Leonidas said, but the pressure from the blade lessened. “Xerxes Dagger? I’ve heard that name. An assassin. Drawn from the ranks of the Immortals. It’s said he had to kill one hundred other Immortals in single combat before he could be bestowed the honor.”

  Scout wasn’t sure about the whole honor thing. She wasn’t sure of much at all.

  “You killed him?” Leonidas asked.

  “We killed him together.”

  Leonidas pulled the blade back. “Why?”

  Scout rubbed her neck. “He was going to kill us; well, me at least. Isn’t that what people called Dagger do?”

  Leonidas chuckled. “That is so. And I am impressed that two women could take out such an opponent.”

  “Oh, thanks.” But then she looked to the east and saw the growing hint of red over the water.

  Leonidas’ humor vanished also. “It will soon be time.” He turned from her and gazed over his men. Those who weren’t on guard duty were gearing up, although few had actually slept. “Did Pandora go back to Xerxes?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “How could she after killing Xerxes Dagger?” Leonidas said, but his mind was already on what was to come. He shouted commands to his surviving officers.

  “It is best if you leave,” Leonidas said.

  “Maybe we should both leave.”

  “Never.”

  “Take your men,” Scout said. “Lead them away from here. The Persians will be defeated eventually.”

  “Is that another prophecy?” But Leonidas was already looking to where his Spartans were forming.

  Scout wasn’t sure he heard her reply, before he headed off to command the final defense. “No. It’s a promise.”

  Newburgh, New York, 1783 A.D.

  EAGLE HEARD VOICES RAISED IN ANGER. His ears were ringing, his head throbbing.

  Déjà vu all over again. Much like after the IED; but at least he wasn’t on fire.

  He opened his eyes. He was on his back. A rough plank ceiling above. It was dusk outside the dirty window, indicating he’d been out for a little while. He turned his head and heard the shattered bones grind in his shoulder as the pain stunned him with its intensity. He groaned and Hercules’ face appeared over his.

  “Hush! Keep your voice down. Master ain’t happy.”

  Eagle smelled something and it took a few moments to recognize it: axle grease. Eagle looked at his left shoulder: wrapped in not-so-clean linen.

  “Did you get the bullet out?” Eagle asked.

  “Went through,” Hercules said. “Hole on both sides.”

  A door slammed open and Washington came into the room, Caldwell right behind him. “We don’t have time for this, General. I told you. The nigra tried to attack me. Your own man said he isn’t in the head. He needs to be put down like a mad dog. And you need to be on to Philadelphia.”

  Washington folded his arms, staring down at Eagle. “He’s never given trouble before.”

  Being talked about like he was a pet that had strayed pained Eagle as much as the shoulder. Hercules was glaring at him, eyes imploring him not to say a word.

  “He was going through your correspondence, General, sir,” Eagle said.

  Hercules grimaced.

  “He’s a liar,” Caldwell snapped. “He attacked me.”

  “Did you attack him?” Washington asked Eagle.

  A red vein bulged on Caldwell’s forehead.

  “No, General, sir,” Eagle replied. “Simply told him he should not be going through your private papers.”

  “You’re questioning my word by asking a nigra?” Caldwell had pushed up next to Washington. The General shifted away from the intrusion ever so slightly.

  Eagle noted the lack of military formality in the words and he was sure Washington noted it also. In the short time he’d been around the General, Eagle appreciated he was a man who observed everything.

  “I’m trying to ascertain what caused my property to be damaged,” Washington said. “And how damaged it is, not just from your shot, but in the head. I will allow that he was acting strange in the barn earlier.” He shifted his direction of questioning. “Hercules. Where was Samuel when you entered my office? Was he attacking Colonel Caldwell?”

  Hercules stood straight and didn’t answer right away.

  Washington’s right eyebrow arched ever so slightly. “Hercules?”

  “Didn’t look like it, Master. Looked like he was trying to get away. The Colonel was on the other side of the deck and Samuel was near the door and—”

  “My side of the desk?” Washington asked.

  “Yes, sir. But I don’ know what happened before then, Master,” Hercules added.

  The General turned toward Caldwell. “An explanation, sir.”

  “I don’t have to explain myself against the words of nigra, sir. This is out of line.”

  “A simple question,” Washington said. “Were you on my side of the desk?”

  “Yes, but I was at the window, looking out at the troops on the drill field. Concerned about your comment reference their demeanor. Then your boy here attacked me.”

  “Why?”

  Caldwell was outraged. “How would I know, General? Even you said he isn’t right in the head.”

  “You might well be right,” Washington said.

  Eagle opened his mouth to say something and was surprised to see the slightest shake of Washington’s head.

  “I will deal with the matter,” Washington said in a cold, even voice. “I am distressed that you were put in such a position, Colonel. Please wait for me in my office, if you would.” It was not phrased as a request.

  “I should be addressing the officers,” Caldwell said. “They’ve been gathered for a bit and you know how a crowd grows restless.”

  “We’ll get to that matter,” Washington said. “I need to instruct Hercules on what is to be done with Samuel.”

  “Should be hanged for attacking a white man,” Caldwell said.

  “It’s a consideration,” Washington said.

  Eagle noted that Washington’s tone was consistent, level, neither angry nor threatening. Not without affect, but affable. As if everything were no large trouble and could be dealt with. Eagle had experienced the same a few times before in his military career. Moms had it; Nada also.

  A smart person, though, would hear the undertone of a command.

  Several seconds of silence ticked off before Caldwell finally accepted the inevitable and left the room.

  “How is the wound?” Washington asked Hercules.

  “Shoulder done, Master. He won’t be working the fields no more.”

  “You stand by your words, Hercules?”

  The General’s chef licked his lips, glanced at Eagle, then back at his master. “No, sir. I was wrong, sir. Never meant to speak against the Colonel. Sam, he was running. He might have gone after the Colonel for some crazy reason. Got the gun pulled on him and thought better of it.”

  Eagle half-lifted up, the pain in his shoulder sharp rocks of pain grinding. “Sir! My shirt pocket.”

  Eagle held the position despite the searing pain.

  Washington reached down and slid two fingers into the pocket. He pulled out a piece of purple cloth with the word MERIT sewn on it, edged with lace. His eyes widened. Then he reached inside his blue frock coat.

  “Hercules,” Washington said without taking his eyes off Eagle. “Leave me with Samuel for a moment. Be right outside.”

  Hercules was trapped by his status, unable to protest. He slipped out the door.

  “What is this?” Washington demanded, holding up the cloth.

  Eagle didn’t say anything, slumping back onto the cot.

  Washing
ton pulled his hand out from inside the coat. An exact replica of the badge was in his hand. He compared the two. “They are the same. Exactly. Down to the stitching. That is not possible.”

  This was a paradox. Eagle was suddenly aware of that. Because it was the same object. At the same time. In the same room.

  What would Doc make of this? Roland? Eagle settled on somewhere in between; of interest, but not of importance at the moment.

  “How did you get this?” Washington held up the one he’d taken from Eagle.

  “A friend gave it to me, sir.”

  “This makes no sense,” Washington said. “None at all. You have this, which you cannot. There was only the one made at my personal request.”

  “Sir, the only issue right now is the officer assembly. You must give the speech.”

  Washington would not have been a successful combat commander if he couldn’t regroup and gather himself together in a chaotic situation.

  “A slave telling me what to do,” Washington said. “A slave trying to run off with some of my correspondence. The day is full of marvels.” He clenched the Badge of Merits in his fists. “What was Colonel Caldwell looking for?”

  “The letter from Mister Hamilton, sir.” Eagle had to swallow to get enough moisture to talk. “Sir. He shouldn’t be here. Colonel Caldwell.”

  Washington was still as a statue. “What do you mean Colonel Caldwell shouldn’t be here?”

  “Sir. He should have died when the sentry shot him last year.”

  “How do you know that?” Washington demanded. “We kept that quiet. You were back at Mount Vernon. The official report was that he was wounded by a British dragoon while returning to camp. Few know a sentry shot him. And we hung the man.”

  Eagle remained silent.

  “You’re not Samuel,” Washington said. “You look like him. But you’re not him. You don’t speak like him. You don’t act like him.”

  Eagle felt as if he were over a void, ready to fall in a bottomless pit. “I am what you see, sir.”

  Washington opened his left hand. He was running the piece of cloth through his fingers. “We haven’t awarded one yet. Yet now I have two.” He was almost speaking to himself.

  Eagle felt faint. The wound. Being here. What was at stake. “’The road to glory in a patriot army and a free country is open to all’.”

  “My own words,” Washington said. “It’s forbidden for slaves to read. How did you know them? If you knew Caldwell was looking at Hamilton’s letter, you can read. Who taught you?”

  “That doesn’t matter, sir. You must make the speech to the officers. Not Colonel Caldwell.”

  “Caldwell is popular with the men,” Washington said. “An effective orator. And he will use his Bible as a final persuasion.”

  “The Bible?” Eagle couldn’t hold it in, forgetting the situation, the mission, spurred by the pain and shame of his current situation. “The Bible helps keep my brothers and sisters in chains. Keeps them for trying for a better life now, not in the promise of a next life.”

  “Insurrection and sacrilege.” Yet Washington didn’t seem upset. “I can hear these words you speak and understand, but few can. I have had a higher cause for years now: this country.”

  “The same with your officers, sir,” Eagle urged. “Appeal to their sense of duty. Honor. Their loyalty to the cause for which they have fought and suffered. If they are the men you believe them to be, that will be more than sufficient.”

  Washington held up the Badge of Military Merit which Edith Frobish had given Eagle. “You will have to explain this to me. How you have this. How you learned to read. How you know the things you do. There is not time now, though. You will do this on the ‘morrow.”

  That would be a hell of a conversation, Eagle thought.

  But it was never going to happen.

  “Your officers are waiting, sir.”

  Washington stuffed both Badges of Merit into his pocket. “We will speak later.”

  Ravenna, Capitol of the Remains of the Western Roman Empire, 493 A.D.

  THE WORD EXCRUCIATING comes from crucifixion.

  Eagle probably knew that without a download, but it was news to Roland. He was allowing the download to supply him with information as he stared up at the man nailed to the wood. He’d always wondered why churches would take a symbol of torture and make it central to their belief system, but that was pretty low on his list of things to ponder.

  It wasn’t a very long list anyway.

  Roland allowed the download space in his brain, interested in this. The Romans didn’t invent crucifixion. That popped up next. Poor Edith; she’d been forced to input that no one really knew who was the first to get the sick idea to nail someone to an artificial tree. It must have bugged the heck out of her to input the data: that no one really knew.

  Roland figured that it had happened after someone had been nailing people to real trees for a while and wanted to do the same thing in a place where there weren’t trees? But where’d they get the wood then? Import it? Why? To make a show, that was obvious, since these crosses had been placed here to send a message. And it had to have been devised some time after nails were invented, right? Which begat which? Who was sitting around one day looking at a hammer and some long nails and a tree and some person they didn’t like and went: Hey!

  Roland crossed his arms across his chest, feeling the hardness of the armor. This cross wasn’t like the one in churches and Mac had on his belt for his mission. It was shaped like a time-out was called in football. A ‘Tau cross’ according to the download. Where the crossbeam rested on top of the vertical pole, forming a capital T.

  Roland inspected the victim. The nails didn’t go through the hands or wrists, but the forearms. Between the radius and ulna bones. A part of Roland wanted to hold on to those two words so he could toss them at Doc one day.

  Roland wondered how long it took before it was figured out that a nail through the hand or wrist didn’t hold very long before small bones and soft flesh gave way? But the two larger bones in the forearm? Much better.

  Those first two nails were pounded in while the victim was prostrate on the ground. Easier leverage. A good team could get them both done in less than thirty seconds. Then the patibulum (bar) was lifted and fit into place at the top of the stipes (vertical pole).

  While the condemned was being lifted, the shoulders and elbows usually dislocated, but what was a little extra helping of pain when the purpose was pain and eventual death?

  Roland looked at the man’s legs. They were twisted to one side. A single nail went through the heels, right foot fixed above left. Further up, a piece of wood, a sedecula, was in a notch just below the buttocks, helping to support the victim’s weight. Which seemed contrary to the purpose of execution but fit right in with the concept of a slow, lingering death.

  Regardless, death was inevitable.

  Roland snatched a piece of the download that Edith hadn’t apparently considered overly important; a footnote. The executioners were required to remain on duty until all the condemned they’d nailed to wood had died. He looked about, but didn’t see any soldiers hanging around. The good old days of Duty, Honor and Empire, were over.

  Roland drew his sword and tapped the crucified man on the side of his leg. “Hey.”

  “What do you want?” The man gasped after getting those four words out.

  “What is the plan?” Roland asked.

  The man was fighting for air. Despite the sedecula, and the nail through the heels, most of his weight was on his upward extended arms, compressing his chest and making his diaphragm struggle. This made breathing most difficult.

  “The guards are gone,” Roland said. “There’s no one anxious to get off duty and get a drink or visit a whore, who will break your legs so you die faster. Or put a spear in your side.” He shrugged. “The cross will do all the work. Eventually. You look pretty healthy. Well, you looked pretty healthy. Before this. You might last a few days.” The download didn’t gi
ve a world’s record for lasting on the cross; seems Edith’s interest didn’t swing toward the morbid.

  “What do—” the man couldn’t finish the sentence.

  “Told you. The plan. Your first group of assassins didn’t get me. And the woman with the first four? Your friend? She hopped out of here back through a gate. And the ones you paid to attack me in case the first group failed? Those three idiots? Dead. So. I get it. Take me out before you were supposed to do whatever it was this evening. But doesn’t look like you’re going to get to do it. Are there any more of you?”

  Roland realized he was asking too many questions of someone who could only get a few words strung together. “Tell you what. I’ll get you down if you promise to tell me the truth.”

  The man was nodding vigorously which wasn’t a surprise.

  “Not so fast,” Roland said. “If I get you down and you lie to me or don’t tell me what I want, I’ll put you back up, but with better support for your ass so you last even longer.”

  The man lifted up on the nail through his heels, gasping in pain, but allowing his diaphragm to work better. “You’ll let me go?”

  “What? Of course not. You’re going to die here. In this pigsty. But it will be quick. See,” Roland said in a perfectly reasonable tone, “I’m being honest with you. I expect the same in return.”

  The man, dressed in a brown tunic, black trousers and with a smoothly cut beard, stared at Roland, but it didn’t take long for reality to make the decision for him. He nodded.

  Roland walked behind the crucifix and studied the mechanics. He took his helmet off and placed it on the ground. Cracked his neck. Walked back to the front. “This is going to hurt a little.”

  Using his dagger, he got leverage on the nail through the heels. He ignored the screams, and rocked the nail back and forth until he was able to grip it and pull it out. Then he had to work fast as the man was suffocating.

  As he went back around the cross, Roland realized no one passing by was paying any particular attention to what he was doing. They probably hadn’t paid too much attention when the crosses were put up either. The average person, Roland knew, had a tremendous capacity to ignore really bad things, as long as it didn’t affect them.