Ides of March (Time Patrol)

by Bob Mayer

  Golovkin stroked his beard. “That is supposing many things. That the mob can be controlled. That the Bolsheviks continue to do as you say. Yes, it is the smart move for them, but they have done many things that are not smart. And they will hold the royal family prisoner, will they not?”

  “Yes,” Doc admitted.

  “And when Lenin gets here? I do not think he will be as merciful.”

  “He will,” Doc said. “He has to. He is as much a prisoner of events as they.”

  “But how will young Alexei regain the throne if he is a prisoner?” Golovkin didn’t wait for an answer. “Many of the royalty will fight the Bolsheviks. Once he is safe in England Alexei can be an inspiration to them. Their hope for the future.”

  “They have to stay here,” Doc said.

  “Then you are telling me that the revolution will not prevail? The Bolsheviks will fail?”

  “We do not get to chose what will unfold,” Doc said.

  “That is not acceptable,” Golovkin said, pulling his heavy revolver out.

  “I am ordering you—” Doc began, but all went black as the butt of the revolver hit him on the side of the head.

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

  “’GUILT’?” GEERT REPEATED. “What has de Cisneros done that he ought feel guilty?”

  “It’s not what he’s done,” Mac said. “It’s what he’s getting ready to do.”

  Night covered the town and the two ships. Dozens of lanterns illuminated the quay and both ships. Now that the Centre Suisse were gone, off with Columbus to La Rabida, Mac and Geert moved out from behind the building.

  The Franciscan was greeting sailors coming ashore from both the Pinta and the Nina, blessing them as each rowboat load was discharged but he seemed distracted, constantly looking toward the Pinta.

  “When I was a student in the Q-Course,” Mac said, “they taught me—”

  “Q what?”

  Mac was having trouble controlling his mind; and his emotions. His dark past boiled inside of him as he stared at the priest. “A school for soldiers. My specialty was targeting things. Figuring out the most effective way to attack something. We used a formula, sort of systems engineering. It was called—” he realized he was speaking Latin and the acronym didn’t carry over—“doesn’t matter what it was called. There were six things to look at.”

  Geert was lost, but Mac didn’t care. Talking it out crystallized it. He held up a single finger. “Criticality. How valuable is the target? For the Shadow, their target is our timeline. That’s pretty valuable, especially to us.” A second finger. “Accessibility. Can the Shadow get to what it wants to achieve? It can today.” He indicated the ships and the priest.

  “Friar de Cisneros is Shadow?” Geert asked.

  “He’s either from the Shadow or he’s working for it.” Mac held up the last three fingers. “Recuperability, vulnerability and effect. Can we fix whatever the Shadow is doing today? Are we vulnerable to what it’s doing? How devastating will the effect to the timeline be of what it’s doing?”

  “So what is it doing? What is the priest doing?”

  Mac gave a grim smile. He pointed at the Pinta. A stretcher was lowered into a rowboat. “Recognizability is the last factor.”

  Geert frowned. “One of the crew is sick? That is normal for a long voyage. Scurvy. There are many—”

  “I’m not supposed to tell you of the future,” Mac said. “But in this case, the truth will be known in a few years anyway. Those men on those ships, some of them, brought back syphilis,” Mac said.

  “They’ve brought back what?”

  “A disease. One you get from sex.”

  Geert snorted. “Another reason to abstain. The clappan is something many sailors get.”

  Yes, Edith had that in there: an early word for gonorrhea. “No. This is something new.”

  “Is it deadly?”

  “It can be.”

  “But if you know it was brought back,” Geert pointed out, “then it was brought back. How is anything different?”

  Mac pointed at the priest waiting for the boat carrying the stretcher to reach land. “Because of him.” Mac stood. “It’s time.”

  “What does de Cisneros have to do with some sickness? How do you know this?”

  “Because I think he’s a real priest, but he looks guilty. He doesn’t like what he’s about to do.”

  “You know this how, my friend?”

  “I understand guilty priests. He reeks of it.”

  Mac drew his dagger as he slid through the welcoming crowd and came up behind the priest. The rowboat was almost to the quay.

  “They are saying that’s Martin Pinzon,” Geert said in a low voice to Mac, indicating the man in the stretcher.

  “Friar de Cisneros,” he called out.

  The priest turned. “Yes, brother?”

  “I have something you need to hear.”

  The priest’s eyes darted to the rowboat. “I must bless Captain Pinzon on his successful journey.”

  “You must hear my confession first,” Mac said.

  “We are of a different order,” he said.

  “I insist,” Mac said.

  “I would be glad to at another time,” the priest said. “But—“

  Mac surreptitiously pressed the point of the dagger against the priest’s side. “I must confess now.”

  Geert was on the other side. “I feel a confession coming on also, brother.”

  Together they hustled him away from the crowd, out of the halo of light welcoming the sons of Palos de la Frontera home from their journey. The priest glanced over his shoulder as Captain Pinzon was lifted up and placed in the rear of a cart by members of his family. The group headed off, away from town.

  Mac and Geert dragged the priest down a short bluff onto the pebbled beach, just above the high water mark. It was dark, only the starlight and a quarter moon for illumination.

  “What were you going to do?” Mac demanded, letting go of the priest.

  De Cisneros dropped to his knees, folded his hands and began praying rapidly in Latin.

  Mac smacked him on the side of the head and he fell over, onto the beach. “You’ll have time for praying later.”

  The priest got to his knees and went to fold his hands in prayers once more.

  “Get up,” Mac ordered, an edge that stopped the hands before they joined.

  “You are Devotio Moderna,” de Cisneros said as he slowly stood up. “What are you doing here?”

  “What were you going to do?” Mac demanded.

  “Give the blessings to—”

  Mac hit de Cisneros in the nose with a fist, a sucker punch that stunned the priest. The sound of the nose breaking was very clear and blood poured forth. While the priest was still stunned, Mac pulled the purse off his shoulder. He looped the strap over his shoulder, then searched de Cisneros’ robe. He found a dagger and tucked it into his belt, just behind his cross.

  Friar De Cisneros was blinking hard, trying to regain his wits. Blood dribbled from his nose and his eyes were full of tears from the punch.

  Mac looked in the purse. A metal tin. Mac opened it. Resting on a bed of soft linen was a pewter syringe. The plunger was extended, indicating it was full. “What’s in it, Friar?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Who were you going to stick it in?”

  “Captain Pinzon.”

  Mac closed the tin and dropped it back in the purse.

  “Why?” Mac asked.

  Geert had turned into a bystander, several steps behind what was developing in front of him.

  Friar de Cisneros gathered himself. He pointed at the two ships anchored in the estuary. “Can you imagine what is going to happen now that they’ve brought word of their discovery? What Europeans will do to the people who already live on the other side of the ocean? Do you know what Columbus has written in his report?”

  “I’ve got a good idea,” Mac said. “How do you know what he wrote?”


  “I was shown it.”

  “By who?”

  “By an Angel of God.”

  “Not likely,” Mac said. “An emissary of the Shadow.”

  “Ah!” Geert exclaimed, finally understanding.

  The priest didn’t care what Mac said. “Columbus writes that the natives are fearful and timid. And guileless and honest. As if those are negatives! He writes that they might become Christians and inclined to love our King and Queen and Princes.”

  “What’s wrong with that?” Geert asked, obviously puzzled. “Seems you and your brethren would want them to become Christians.”

  “It will not be a choice,” De Cisneros said. “I know how Rome works. The Inquisition? The natives will be forced to convert. Those who don’t convert will be killed. They will be made into slaves. They will . . .”

  “Die,” Mac cut him off. “Almost all the natives will die. Mainly from diseases brought from here to the New World. Just as Pinzon and others in his crew are bringing their own disease back with them. And yes. The natives will be enslaved. Converted by force.” He tapped the side of the purse. “But what is this syringe? What were you planning to do?”

  “I was to inject Captain Pinzon with it,” Friar De Cisneros said. “I was told it would prevent his death and the deaths of those across the sea. Save them from enslavement. Surely both of you, being men of God yourselves, understand why one with a pure heart would want to help others?”

  Mac had to take a deep breath as he finally understood. He was facing the most dangerous person: someone who believed they were doing a good thing. Who didn’t understand the means by which he was doing it.

  “How do you think sticking Pinzon with this syringe will change that?”

  “I was promised it would. I must trust the word of the Angel of the Lord who brought it to me.”

  A Valkyrie. Mac knew. Just as a Valkyrie with a prophecy had visited Raleigh, so had de Cisneros. He wasn’t Shadow. He was what he appeared to be. A man of good faith.

  Friar de Cisneros’ eyes glinted in the starlight. “From what you say, you have seen an Angel, haven’t you?”

  “I have,” Mac said.

  “Did it give you God’s mission?” de Cisneros asked.

  “It tried to kill me,” Mac said. “Because it wasn’t an angel. You were lied to, Friar.” He tapped the side of the purse. “I have a good idea what this is. Just as diseases from here are going to wipe out almost all the native inhabitants of the New World, that Angel wants to piggy-back something onto the syphilis virus with this to make it more deadly. Another Black Death at least. If not worse.”

  “I don’t understand what you are saying,” Friar de Cisneros said. “If an Angel tried to kill you, then you are not a man of faith.”

  Geert was thrown by that. “You saw an Angel?” He asked Mac.

  De Cisneros dropped to his knees and clasped his hands together. He began reciting the Lord’s prayer: “Pater Noster, qui es in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum. Adveniat regnum . . .”

  “What do you mean you saw—” Geert began but then gave a strange grunt.

  Mac looked up from the Friar. The point of a rapier protruded from Geert’s chest. He looked surprised more than anything else.

  “I don’t—” Geert said, then the life faded from his eyes and he dropped as the rapier was pulled out.

  The Swiss Guard who’d followed them into the tavern stood there, bloody blade in hand.

  Mac drew his own rapier while taking an automatic step back to get some time and distance.

  The Guard used that time to slam the dagger in his other hand into the base of Friar de Cisneros’ skull, ending his prayer and his life. The Guard stepped over the two bodies, both weapons at the ready.

  The download could supply information, but not the years of muscle and brain training to use these weapons. This was more Roland’s gig, Mac thought as he took another step back.

  “Why?” he yelled at the Guard.

  Who seemed puzzled at the question. “Orders.”

  “Whose orders?”

  “Told you. My sergeant’s.” The Guard took another step forward, raising the two weapons in what Mac assumed was the proper attack position. The download flickered a bunch of images of rapier/dagger defense positions and—Mac shut that down.

  He was fighting the Swiss Guard’s version of Roland. How best to do that?

  Mac spun about and ran away.

  Thermopylae, Greece, 480 B.C.

  SCOUT SLIPPED OUT OF CAMP, heading south along the well-worn path that headed to southern Greece. She paused at one of the hot springs six hundred meters from the Spartan camp. The path was broader, and with the coming dawn, she could see the path below open up, descending to a wide plain. Once the Persians got past the Spartans, all of Greece lay before them.

  Scout turned landward, closer to the mountain, searching, slowly moving along.

  She reached a cleft in the side of the mountain. Inside it was the slightest trace of a path winding upward. Scout began to climb, the point of the Naga Staff leading. Up, up, scrambling on a path made for goats, not humans.

  After five minutes the path briefly widened to a small, flat open space. Fifteen feet wide, ten feet deep. On the far side, the path curved up and to the right.

  As good a place as any, Scout decided.

  Just in time as Pandora appeared, coming down. The Sibyl paused, trying to hide her surprise at Scout’s presence.

  “You aren’t as smart as you think,” Scout said. “I may not have been educated in the Sight, but a friend taught me many things. He called them Nada Yada’s. One was to never trust anyone who tries too hard and too fast to be your friend.”

  “I’m not your friend,” Pandora. “I am your family.”

  “Yeah. Right. Then what are you doing here? And who’s coming behind you?”

  “The battle will play out as it did in this timeline’s history,” Pandora said. “I gave you a chance to save some lives and delay the inevitable. This is on you if you did not take advantage of the opportunity I presented you.”

  “You really think Leonidas would withdraw? Spartans retreat?”

  “Of course not. Thus your history will play out according to script.”

  Scout took a step back as a dark mist crept down the path behind Pandora. Not a natural phenomenon. It slithered around her feet, slowly enveloping her.

  “You are alone,” Pandora said. “Your Nada Yada isn’t here. No Spartan is here. That is what you can expect from men. They will always fail you. Join us. Your sisters.”

  Scout was barely listening. The mist was preceded by a wet, oily smell. One she’d experienced before, in the Space Between. The netherworld were various timelines met via Gates.

  Something bad was coming.

  She almost took another step back. But didn’t. If she retreated, then Pandora won. Fear won.

  “Hope,” Scout said.

  Pandora was confused. “What?”

  “Elpis,” Scout said. “Hope. It remained in your box. Your pithos. Why?”

  “For men, hope is the worst plague of all,” Pandora said. She pointed to the northeast. “Despite the reality, Leonidas and his men still have hope. They know what’s going to happen to them, yet deep inside, there is some flicker of hope. It is the curse of men to never accept the inevitability of reality.”

  “Something is coming,” Scout said, gripping the haft of the Naga tight.

  “Can you tell me what it is?” Pandora said.

  “Are you testing me?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “It isn’t human.” Scout was certain of that. “It’s evil.”

  Pandora stepped to the side. The mist reached Scout.

  “You think you know things,” Pandora said. “Your world is just one of many worlds. Many the same, many much different.”

  “Blah, blah,” Scout said. “You really—” She stopped speaking as something bounded out of the path, past Pandora, into the open space. “Oh crap.”

/>   The creature had the body of a lion, the head of a serpent and the tail of a scorpion. The head darted back and forth, tongue flickering, searching. The barbed tail moved in concert with the head.

  “Your pet?” Scout asked, Naga at the ready.

  “A reality from another timeline,” Pandora said. “A legend in your timeline.”

  The snakehead had stopped moving, aimed directly at Scout. Along with the tail.

  “A chimera,” Scout said. “’A thing of immortal make’, according to Homer in the Iliad.” Great, now she was turning into Eagle.

  “You still have a choice,” Pandora said.

  “You don’t know me at all,” Scout said. “It was never a choice.” She charged forward, swinging the Naga, trying to take the snakehead off. The head darted down, under her blow and she sensed more than saw, the scorpion tail striking downward.

  Scout threw herself to the side, the barbed point hitting rock just inches from her. She rolled, coming to her knees, Naga ready.

  The mist had now covered the entire open space. The stench was sickening.

  The chimera faced her, as much as such a beast could face someone. Now the snakehead arced to the left, poised, while the scorpion tail went right, high.

  “What now?” Pandora called out.

  “Shut up,” Scout yelled. She got to her feet. She focused on the slits in the snake eyes, the tail in her peripheral vision. “You’re an ugly bastard.”

  Then she ignored both head and tail. Dove forward, rolled, and jabbed upward into the lion chest. She sensed both the snakehead and tail coming for her from either side as she shoved the Naga point deep into the creature. She twisted away from the tail as a sword sliced through the neck and the snakehead tumbled to the ground.

  The chimera toppled over.

  “Thank you,” Scout said as she pulled the Naga out of the body.

  Leonidas’ face was in the shadows cast by the cheekpiece’s of his helmet. He had his heavy shield in one hand, his xiphos in the other. He stepped past Scout and struck once more, slicing off the still-twitching scorpion tail.

  “I will be remembered as a coward,” Leonidas said. “Deserting my men on the edge of battle.”