Ides of March (Time Patrol)

by Bob Mayer

  Roland jumped and missed the short piece of rope dangling down the back. He could hear the man gurgling, choking. Roland jumped again, grabbed it, his weight pulling it down. The beam, the patibulum, lifted out of its notch and it, with the man still nailed to it, fell to the ground.

  The man was trying to scream, except he didn’t have the oxygen to do it.

  Roland knelt next to him. “That wasn’t too bad, was it?”

  The man was a newly landed fish, gasping for air, arms stretched above his head, still nailed to the patibulum.

  “Anyone else here from your timeline?” Roland asked.

  The guy was transitioning from fish to mammal. “How did you know?”

  Roland pointed to the man’s left arm. “Sun was just right as we rode by. Doubt anyone else in this era has a steel rod in his forearm; must have ripped open when they hoisted you up. But I imagine you didn’t plan on getting crucified. Wasn’t very visible, but there was a glint. Sort of like the tiny reflection from a sniper’s scope. I’m sort of trained to spot things like that.”

  The man’s eyes were closed in pain.

  Roland doubled-down on that by wiggling the nail in the arm he’d indicated. What the man emitted couldn’t quite be called a scream. More a whimper.

  Roland realized this was a unique situation. Scout had run into the Shadow’s agents, but killed them, pretty impressively, if he had to say so. But also quickly. No chance for questions.

  “What’s with you guys?” Roland asked. “Scout saw the contact lens in one of your agents. You’ve got a steel rod. Not very smart.”

  The man kept his eyes closed and didn’t respond.

  “Why are you messing with us?” Roland asked.

  The man coughed. A trickle of blood leaked out of the corner of his mouth and Roland realized he was in worse shape than the bad shape he’d suspected.

  “I don’t know,” he finally said.

  “What?”

  The man opened his eyes. He looked up at Roland, eyes locking. “I’m a soldier. I just follow orders.”

  “Oldest excuse in the book,” Roland said. “And I get it. I follow orders too. But your people give the orders. You must have a clue why.”

  “Not my people giving the orders,” he said.

  “What?”

  “We’re soldiers. That’s all we have in our timeline. Soldiers. That’s all we can pay the Shadow with. To let us live. Survive. Not be destroyed. Our soldiers are our currency.”

  Roland sat back on his haunches as the implications sank in. “That’s messed up.”

  “Better than being obliterated as if we never existed. We tried fighting and were almost extinguished. Can’t fight the Shadow with just weapons. Takes something more.”

  “What’s the something more?”

  The man shook his head. “Don’t know. We gave up a long time ago. Just trying to survive. Give our kids, those who aren’t soldiers, a way to survive.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Teleclus.”

  “Russian?”

  The man mustered some pride. “I am Spartan. All soldiers from our world who are the tribute to the Shadow are Spartans. It is the price we pay for having been the most powerful nation when the Shadow attacked and we lost.”

  Roland sat back on his haunches. “Spartan? That’s weird. Scout went—” he halted, realizing he was about to violate a rule. The first rule of Time Patrol: You do not talk about the Time Patrol.

  Then again, the guy was dying.

  Second rule of Time Patrol: You do not talk about the Time Patrol.

  Roland believed in rules.

  Back on task. “Who was the woman?”

  “Our handler. Diana. She is from the Shadow. I think; we don’t know much. She brought me here as her security. She paid those four and told them where to wait. Then had me recruit more as back up. Redundancy.”

  Yeah, they sent at least two for Scout, Roland thought.

  “How’d you end up on this thing?”

  “When I reported back to her. Told her I’d hired more killers. She had some of Theodoric’s soldiers with her. Betrayed me. Turned me over.” He took a deep breath. “I knew there was little chance of coming back. Few of our people come back when they get sent on a mission for the Shadow.”

  “But she’ll be back right?” Roland asked. “Or she left someone else here to do what needs to be done?”

  The man looked at Roland, confused. “What?”

  “Who else is here to finish the mission?”

  “’The mission’?” The man closed his eyes. “I’m very tired.”

  “The mission,” Roland said. “Keep Odoacer from getting killed. Kill Theodoric. Whatever. Change our timeline.”

  The man shook his head. “Told you. No one else came with us. But she probably paid off other to do her bidding. Always the easiest way. Pay others to do the dirty work. But you don’t understand.”

  Roland sighed. He got told that a lot. “What don’t I understand?”

  “The mission Diana gave me.” The man looked to the left at the nail in his arm, then to the right. “I got that rod in my arm—” his voice faltered, his eyes growing unfocused. Shock was setting in. “On another op. Can’t remember. Why can’t I remember? I came back from that one. I was lucky.”

  “What don’t I understand?” Roland asked, his voice gentle. “What was your mission?”

  “You.”

  The Missions Phase IV

  Rome, Roman Empire, 44 B.C.

  “FRIENDS, ROMANS, COUNTRYMEN, give me your ears. I come—”

  “No!” A woman’s voice cut through Marc Antony’s drunken words. “Do you want them to rip their ears off and toss them to you? Lend me your ears. Lend me your ears.”

  Antony stood on a wide bed, stark naked, swaying as if at sea. He laughed at the interruption. “I’ll rip their ears off if need be to get them to listen.”

  Moms and Spurinna had been let in a back entry to Antony’s house. Led by one of the Seer’s slave contacts to this inner sanctum of Caesar’s co-counsel. They stood behind a gauzy curtain, listening and watching. The woman who’d spoken wasn’t in their field of vision.

  “Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears.” Antony burped. “I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him. I promise to return your ears when I am done speaking.” He flopped back onto the bed, nearly falling on one of the four nude women sprawled around him. They immediately reached out, caressing, cooing.

  Moms and Spurinna startled when at low voice right behind them. “He’s an utter idiot, but idiots can be useful if correctly coached.”

  The same voice who’d corrected him. They both turned.

  A slender woman, as tall as Moms, with pale skin and bright red hair flowing over her shoulders, smiled at them. “Do either of you recognize the words the great Antony speaks?”

  Moms had the dagger she’d taken from Spurinna’s chamber pressed into the soft spot, just under the woman’s ribcage, pointed at her heart just scant inches away. “I do. And that’s why you die.”

  “Hasty, hasty, hasty,” the woman said. “We haven’t even been properly introduced. I know of you,” she nodded at Spurinna. “Who calls herself a Seer but is just a spy-master. And you are?” She nodded at Moms.

  Moms knew Nada would not be happy she hadn’t already killed the woman, but the damn vagaries of the variables as Dane liked to say, stilled her hand.

  “It appears I must go first,” the redhead said when there was no reply. “I am Pyrrha.”

  The download was fast: Pyrrha, daughter of Pandora.

  “Perhaps you’ve heard of me?” She asked Moms. “My mother at least? She always seems to get the higher billing. It’s really not fair considering I am, mythologically at least, the mother of all mankind after the Great Flood.” She stepped back from the knife.

  Moms let her hand drop.

  “A widespread tale, is it not?” Pyrrha asked. “The Great Flood? The deluge Zeus sent to cleanse the earth? Le
aving only two people, one man, one woman, to repopulate the world. My husband, poor Deucalion, and myself. We were at a loss how to proceed once the water receded. We were all that remained of the human race, standing on Mount Parnassus.” Her voice held a hint of mocking her own story.

  “The names change, the locations change, but the essence is there in all the myths and religions around the world. Ah yes, repopulate after a great flood. Why a God would want to kill everyone is the question no one seems to ponder too deeply in worshipping such an entity. And why one would want to continue worshipping the God that practically wiped everyone out, is another question worth pondering.”

  “What—” Moms began, but Pyrrha wasn’t finished.

  “So Deucalion and I threw stones over our shoulders. My husband’s stones became our sons, while mine, our daughters. Really, seems it would have much easier to simply copulate. Speaking of which—” She inclined her head toward the bed where Antony was entwined with the women. It wasn’t clear who was doing what to whom. “Men,” she said sadly. “Such simple creatures. Why we let them control things is beyond me.”

  “What do you want?” Moms asked.

  “You still haven’t told me your name,” Pyrrha said. “You’re not Scout. She’s younger.”

  Moms’ skin went cold at the mention of her teammate’s name. Her hand tightened around the hilt of the dagger.

  “You must be Moms,” Pyrrha finally said.

  “I am.”

  “It is an honor to meet you,” Pyrrha said.

  “I don’t think so,” Moms said.

  Antony’s voice was muffled, drunk, distracted. “The evil that men do lives after them. The good is oft interfered with their bones. So let it be with Caesar.”

  The three turned toward the bed at the sudden change in Antony’s voice when he said the name. He got to his knees. Shoved one of the women away, sending her sprawling off the bed. The others scooted away. Confused. Wary.

  Antony got to his feet, steadier than he was before. “The good is often interred with their bones,” he recited. “So let it be with Caesar. The noble Brutus—” Antony paused, looking about as if suddenly aware of his surroundings. He shook his head, trying to clear the fog. “The noble Brutus. For Brutus is an honorable man. So are they all, all honorable men.”

  The women scattered, running from the room as Antony leapt off the bed, snatching up a sword. “Honorable men?” He cursed. “Caesar was my friend! Is my friend. Faithful and just to me. But Brutus says Caesar is ambitious. And Brutus, oh yes, he is an honorable man. And he says Caesar is ambitious. Then why did Caesar turn down the crown I offered him at Lupercal? Three times I offered. And three times he refused. Is that ambition? He made me small with those refusals. If one should have a grudge, it should be I. And Brutus is an honorable man and I am not?”

  Antony slashed with the sword. “But what do I know? You all love him. And not without cause.” He lifted the sword once more, to kill the invisible demons surrounding him, but he let it go, clattering on the floor. “What do I know?” He fell to his knees and cried out. “Oh judgment! Thou have fled to brutish beasts. Men have lost their reason. I have lost mine.”

  Antony leaned over, forehead to marble, and sobbed. “My heart will be in the coffin with Caesar. It will be in there.”

  He crumpled to the floor, sobbing.

  “He could have saved him, you know,” Pyrrha said. “Antony’s sword at Caesar’s side. But now?” she indicated the wreck of a man curled up on the floor.

  “What are you doing here?” Moms asked.

  Pyrrha indicated Spurinna. “Fixing what your fool tried to do.”

  “Why would you want Caesar to die?” Moms was confused. “Why not have him live? Change our timeline?”

  “I tried,” Pyrrha said. “But there are things that cannot be changed. You’ll learn this, if you get the time. The Fates have made this a higher law.”

  “The Fates? Who are they?”

  “There is so much you don’t know,” Pyrrha said. A Gate opened behind her.

  “Ah!” Pyrrha said, sensing Moms intention. “If you kill me now, then Scout will die the forever death.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Pyrrha stepped close, put her mouth next to Moms ear. “Beware the Ides.” Her lips brushed along Moms cheek and then she kissed her on the lips. Hard. Fierce.

  Pyrrha stepped back and the Gate snapped out of existence.

  Petrograd, Russia, 1917.

  THE THREE MEN SPUN ABOUT from the small fire as Krylo opened the door. They drew pistols and aimed them at Doc.

  “Easy.” Doc held his hands up. “We come in peace.”

  “You are not Russian,” the well-dressed man in the center said. He was obviously the Count, as the other two wore peasant garb. He was a tall man, over six feet, with a thick dark beard, streaked with white. He wore an expensive coat and a fur hat.

  “I’m American,” Doc said.

  “Then we speak in English,” the Count said, switching languages. “So only the two of us will understand. I assume you are the man I am here to meet?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You are from—” he paused—“another time. Correct? Why else would an American be here? And now?” He didn’t wait for an answer. He bowed slightly at the waist. “I am Count Pyotr Golovkin.”

  “Doc.”

  Golovkin didn’t seem impressed with the name or the lack of title. “That is all?”

  “That is all.”

  “Things must be different in your time,” Golovkin said. “Is it short for Doctor?”

  “It’s a name I was given.” Doc looked at the other two men. They had turned back to the fire, warming themselves. Krylo had joined them, and they were conversing in Russian in low voices, barely audible.

  Golovkin rubbed his hands together. “So. Should we proceed?”

  “With what?” Doc asked.

  Golovkin cocked his head. “We are here for the same reason, are we not?”

  “And that is?”

  “To save the young Tsar, of course.”

  “And you know this how?” Doc asked.

  Golovkin appeared surprised at the question. “What other outcome could there be here? Nicholas?” He shrugged. “The Tsar was done before he ever took the throne. He never had the strength to rule Mother Russia. He’s already given up power. Today the Bolsheviks make it official. Put all the false stamps and signatures of the revolutionaries on the document. But young Alexei? He is the future of Russia. And we must get him out of here. The quiet in the streets is deceptive. Things are going to turn ugly very soon.”

  “You are here to help me, aren’t you?” Doc asked.

  “And you, me,” Golovkin said. “My men are good shots, but I think we can get out of the palace and through the city to the harbor without trouble. If we move quickly. I have hired a boat that will take us to England. It awaits. But we will have to leave the Tsar. That is the agreement I have worked out with the Bolsheviks and it is what King George finds acceptable.”

  “But you don’t know what’s supposed to happen,” Doc said.

  “I know what has to happen,” Golovkin said. “There can be no other path for Russia.” He took a step closer to Doc and lowered his voice. “One of my spies has informed me that the Germans are giving that pig Lenin money to fuel the Bolsheviks and are helping him to return to Mother Russia. He is a traitor to not only the Tsar but to Russia. He will be here within the month. I know Lenin. I met him in France. He is a very dangerous man.”

  Doc knew what Golovkin was saying was true: Lenin was in Germany at the moment. He’d been exiled twice, once in 1900 after spending three years imprisoned in Siberia, and then again in 1907. He’d been against Russian involvement in World War I, for which Doc had to give him points: so far the Russians had lost more soldiers in the war than any country in any previous war. Ever.

  The download further confirmed what Golovkin had just said: the Germans were going to return Lenin
and his key men in a secret railway car in April. The German intent was to foster more anti-war fervor in Russia. In that, they would succeed. But Lenin would be forced to briefly flee once more, then return and finally depose the Provisional Government and proclaim Soviet rule in November. At which time he would make peace with Germany and the Russian Civil War between the Reds and the Whites would commence. And in the midst of all that, on 17 July 1918, Nicholas II, his wife, the four Duchesses, and Alexei, would be assassinated.

  “You are to do what I tell you,” Doc said.

  Golovkin frowned. “And that is?”

  “Nothing. I’ve already taken care of what needs to be done.”

  Golovkin took a step back and folded his arms across his chest. “What have you done? The Tsarina is trapped here with her children. The family has to get out. There is not much time. You say you’ve taken care of things, but as far as I can tell nothing has changed. Unless you can tell me differently.”

  Doc tried to muster some inner Nada: “I’m not just telling you to do nothing,” he said. “I am ordering you.”

  Golovkin unfolded his arms, reached out, grabbed Doc by the elbow, and pulled him out of the small room, away from the others.

  “What are you saying?” Golovkin demanded. “That we leave the family to the mob? They will not last long. Only that fool Krylo remains from the Imperial Guard. And he is only good for shoveling coal and hiding. The Bolsheviks come and go as they please. Soon it will please them to come here and take the family.”

  “They will be protected,” Doc said.

  “By who? The Bolsheviks?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why would the Bolsheviks protect the very people they are overthrowing?”

  Doc was relieved there was something he could answer honestly. “They will continue to protect them as they are already doing to keep the Russian people from turning against their revolution. If the Bolsheviks harm the Tsarina, and especially the children, think what will happen?”