by Bob Mayer
“You’re welcome,” Scout said.
Trumpets blared in the distance, from the direction of the Gates of Fire. Leonidas turned, his body tense, listening. “The final assault begins. Assyrian horns. They will lead.”
Scout pointed the bloody tip of her Naga at Pandora. “Are the Persians coming behind you?”
The body of the chimera slowly crumbled inward, turning to dust.
“Answer me,” Scout demanded.
Pandora sighed. “Of course they come. The battle must play out as history dictates.”
“Is there any reason we shouldn’t kill you?” Scout asked.
The mist dissipated, the light of dawn piercing it. The smell of the nearby sea was masking the odor of the mist and the beast.
“Because you’ve won,” Pandora said. “This time.”
A dark circle appeared behind her. She took a step back and was gone. The gate snapped out of existence. As it did so, Scout staggered, fell to her knees, as a vision blossomed in her mind, blotting out everything, every other thought, every sound, sight, feel, smell. She’d have fallen forward onto her face if Leonidas had not grabbed her shoulders.
“What is wrong?”
The vision faded and Scout returned to the here and now. “They come.”
“I hear,” Leonidas said. Voices, the clatter and clank of armored men, trickled down the trail.
“We cannot hold this place for long,” Leonidas said.
“We’re not supposed to hold this place,” Scout said. She grabbed his arm. “We hold the wall with your men. Come!”
Newburgh, New York, 1783 A.D.
“GENTLEMEN.” WASHINGTON’S VOICE was level, soft, but it carried clearly through the ‘Temple’, which was what the largest open building in the Newburgh Cantonment had been dubbed since Colonel Caldwell conducted services in it every morning. A forty by seventy foot building in the center of camp.
Sitting with his back against the sidewall, on the outside, just underneath an open window, Eagle accepted there was no position in which his shoulder would not be in agony. The wound was bleeding through the bandage. Eagle was uncertain how many more hours he had left here, but if Washington could just get through this speech, Eagle could get back to the cot, lie down, and just wait.
Then get some proper medical care, not a packing of axle grease.
Washington spoke: “By an anonymous summons, an attempt has been made to convene you together. How inconsistent with the rules of propriety, how unmilitary and how subversive of all order and discipline, let the good sense of the army decide. In the moment of this summons, another anonymous production was sent into circulation, addressed more to the feelings and passions than to the reason and judgment of the army. The author of this piece . . .”
Washington continued, but Eagle already knew the speech. Besides being a military leader, Washington was a superb orator.
After discussing the letter which had been circulating, Washington zeroed in. “This dreadful alternative of either deserting our country in the extremist hour of her distress, or turning our arms against it, which is the apparent object, unless Congress can be compelled into instant compliance, has something so shocking in it, that humanity revolts at the idea.”
Washington’s voice rose. “My God! What can this writer have in view, by recommending such measures? Can he be a friend to the army? Can he be a friend to this country? Rather is he not an insidious foe? Some emissary, plotting the ruin of both, by sowing the seeds of discord and separation between the civil and military powers of the continent? But, here, gentlemen—” There was a long pause. Eagle forced himself to turn toward the building and get to his knees, peering in one corner of the window.
Washington stood at the pulpit, both hands on the edge, looking out over his blue-clad audience. Eagle saw that he had something clenched in one of his hands and realized it was the Badge.
Washington repeated himself. “But, here, gentlemen, I will drop the curtain, because it would be as imprudent in me to assign my reasons for this opinion, as it would be insulting to your conception to suppose you stood in need of them. A moment's reflection will convince every dispassionate mind of the physical impossibility of carrying either proposal into execution.
Eagle could well imagine Roland’s reaction listening to such a speech. His head would explode. Doc would probably deplore the run on sentences, but an edge was creeping into Washington’s voice, indicating he was speaking from the heart, letting it lead to the words.
“By thus determining, and thus acting, you will pursue the plain and direct road to the attainment of your wishes; you will defeat the insidious designs of our enemies, who are compelled to resort from open force to secret artifice. You will give one more distinguished proof of unexampled patriotism and patient virtue, rising superior to the pressure of the most complicated sufferings: and you will, by the dignity of your conduct, afford occasion for posterity to say, when speaking of the glorious example you have exhibited to mankind—‘had this day been wanting, the world had never seen the last stage of perfection to which human nature is capable of attaining’."
Washington stopped and there was absolute stillness in the room. The General’s shoulders slumped, perhaps from exhaustion, perhaps from despair. Eagle knew that was the end. Yet he didn’t sense that the officers were swayed.
Washington held up a single finger, as if asking for a moment. He reached inside his coat and retrieved a letter. “I have here a letter from a friend in Congress I would like to read to you. To show that your cause is not futile and lying forgotten.” He unfolded it. Peered at it, his hand visibly shaking. He gave a slight shake of his head. “Forgive me,” he whispered. He pulled a pair of reading glasses out of a pocket. "Gentlemen, you will permit me to put on my new spectacles, for I have not only grown gray but almost blind in the service of my country."
That broke the officers. Eagle could see the ripple pass through the rows of benches at this simple movement. As Washington began reading, several men were crying, seeing that their commander had paid like they had; given his health, his years, his life to the cause.
Eagle blinked and realized he too was crying.
He didn’t even listen to the letter and he knew few of the officers were listening either.
It was done.
Eagle turned and slid back to the ground, his back against the wall, blinking the tears out of his eyes. And when he could see, in front of him, outlined against the evening sky was Colonel Caldwell holding a saber, the point less than a foot from Eagle’s chest.
“You think you’ve achieved something, don’t you?” Caldwell smiled. “You’ve failed. And now you die.”
Ravenna, Capitol of the Remains of the Western Roman Empire, 493 A.D.
ALONG WITH THE OTHER ELEVEN PROTECTORS, Roland stood behind Odoacer, King of Italy, destroyer of the Western Roman Empire, old man, and currently very drunk.
Odoacer slouched in his throne, a garish wooden thing, much too big, making the king seem that much smaller. It was at one end of a long wooden table. At the far end was Theodoric. Seated on a stool. A dozen Ostrogoth warriors were behind him, faces painted, armed to the teeth. They didn’t look like they were here to talk peace, but Roland had a sense this is the way they looked all the time: for battle, at weddings, for birthday parties, taking a dump, whatever.
Most of the Protectors were veterans of the Roman Army. Like their King, some of the men next to Roland were a bit long in the tooth and looked less than inspired at the current situation. The odor of alcohol was thick; some must have been prepping for the meeting the age-old stupid way.
The benches on either side of the twenty-foot long table were empty except for one man in red vestments sitting in the center on the right side: John, Bishop of Ravenna, the download suggested. The priest who’d brokered the truce and potential joint leadership deal. Each king, and the bishop, had a plate heaped with food in front of them, but while neither King had partaken, the bishop, a portly man, was go
ing at it quite greedily; not surprising after the three-year siege Ravenna had been under from Theodoric. Odoacer had a goblet in his hand, but Roland noticed that Theodoric had not lifted his. The bishop was on his third.
Roland’s combat instincts were screaming ‘Ambush’, but any idiot would know that just from the way things were arranged. Odoacer didn’t seem overly concerned as he drained the goblet and held it out. From one of the sally ports leading into the courtyard a boy dashed out, filled it and disappeared.
The two kings had yet to speak a word to each other since Theodoric and his entourage entered five minutes ago.
“Are you ready to finalize the treaty?” Odoacer broke the silence, which lost him points in Roland’s opinion.
Theodoric confirmed that with a slight smile. “Of course.”
“How will we do this?” Odoacer asked. “We can not both be King. Nor Emperor. We must use another term in order to rule together. I suggest we use the Roman term: consul.”
“You would like to go back to being Roman,” Theodoric said. “You fought for them long enough. Before you turned on your Emperor.”
“The Roman way worked well enough,” Odoacer said. “It will work again. And it will give us footing with the East.”
“I know more about the Roman way than you,” Theodoric said. “I spent many years in Constantinople.”
“As a hostage,” Odoacer said.
“I became a magister militum,” Theodoric said. “A master of soldiers. And I have been a consul of Rome.”
“Not this Rome.”
“This Rome,” Theodoric said, “exists at the whim of the East.”
“We don’t have to,” Odoacer said.
“I disagree.”
Roland saw movement up and to the right. Someone was on a balcony, overlooking the courtyard. A woman in a long black robe. Roland recognized her from the ambush. She turned her head and looked directly at him. She smiled and gave a slight nod.
Roland didn’t know what to make of that, then again, he’d always exasperated Mac the few times they gone out together and women had given Roland the ‘eye’ and Roland had been oblivious to their come-on.
He did know, though, that this wasn’t a come-on. The woman reminded him a bit of Neeley: tall, short dark hair, dark eyes. Age indeterminate. Her hands rested on the railing, no weapon visible.
Roland scanned the rest of the area, searching for potential assassins: targeted either at him or Theodoric.
Nothing.
Theodoric picked up his goblet and that must have been the signal, because eight of the eleven soldiers standing around Roland, and behind Odoacer, walked away, four to each side. They went halfway down, then turned, angling to face their former King.
Twenty to four. Despite what Mac said, Roland could do this kind of math very quickly.
He looked up at the woman once more. What did she have planned to change the inevitable? Right now it was heading down accepted history highway.
Theodoric drank slowly, eyeing his counterpart over the rim. He drained it and put it back on the table. Then he stood. “Bishop?”
John looked up, surprised to be interrupted, then quickly, as fast as someone as fat as him could do quickly, got to his feet. He grabbed a leg of some meat and took it with him, departing the scene.
“You barter in betrayal,” Odoacer said. “How much did it cost you to suborn my Protectors?”
“Nothing,” Theodoric said. “I appealed to their sense of survival. You have been losing for years. How long can you expect to keep men loyal in such circumstances?” He used his chair as a step up onto the table, drawing his sword. His Ostrogoths drew their weapons and the eight defectors took a step back, clearing the path on either side of the table.
Roland still waited for the fly in the ointment. Two of the men with him slid their swords out and flanked their king. They seemed ready to go down with the captain. The third, finally able to do math, walked away, joining the first eight. Leaving Roland alone behind Odoacer.
Roland looked up at the woman again. She was focused on Odoacer.
Expanding his basic math to speculative math, Roland wondered why the two were remaining loyal to Odoacer, given the current odds? Going down with the captain is one thing, but the ship was pretty leaky to start with, given the king’s condition.
It was a suicidal move.
Unless it wasn’t.
Theodoric paused halfway down the table and looked to his right, at the officer who’d shuffled Roland into line when he’d arrived at the palace. “You told me you had paid off all?”
“Three are new, sir,” the officer responded.
Roland slammed the point of his spatha into the back of the soldier on the left, going directly through the heart and hitting the breastplate from the inside. He’d caught the man just as he was starting to leap onto the table. The other made it onto the table, but was surprised that his comrade wasn’t at his side. Nevertheless, he went for Theodoric.
Odoacer shoved the wooden chair back, struggling to his feet, lifting the sword that had been on his lap. Roland easily knocked it out his feeble hand with the flat of his own sword, laid the sharp edge against Odoacer’s throat, then watched the duel on the table-top.
The soldier was good. Very good. Theodoric was forced to give ground, barely able to stop the assault. If there’d been two? He’d have died already.
That’s how quickly history would have changed.
With his free hand, Roland drew a dagger and threw it, hours and hours of practice becoming useful. It struck the soldier directly behind his left knee, buckling it, and that was all Theodoric needed to finish him off.
Roland looked up to the balcony and nodded at the woman. A ripple of anger crossed her face, gone so quickly another might have wondered if it had ever been there, but not Roland. She looked at him, gave a slight bow. Stepped back. And was gone.
Theodoric stalked down the table, sword raised with both hands high over his head.
Helpless, facing imminent death, Odoacer cried out in a surprisingly loud voice: “Where is God? Where is God?” He seemed genuinely surprised.
Theodoric struck a mighty blow straight down, smashing through Odoacer’s helmet, splitting his head asunder.
Blood spurted and Odoacer collapsed forward onto the table at Theodoric’s feet.
“He doesn’t have a brave bone left in his wretched body,” Theodoric declared as he struggled to pull his sword out of the skull. He looked back at his Ostrogoths. “Kill them all. His wife. His brother. Any of his soldiers who do not swear allegiance to me.” He finally got his sword out and sheathed it without cleaning the blade. He gestured at one of his men, who handed him a large axe.
Theodoric lifted it over his head. He swung, muscles and gravity working together.
Roland was splattered with brain and blood as the axe-head finished splitting Odoacer’s head in half.
Theodoric acknowledged Roland for the first time. “Shove it up on the table.”
The download confirmed the command. This was the way it happened. Roland grabbed Odoacer’s belt and threw the corpse onto the table. Theodoric resumed his grisly work, splitting Odoacer in half as the legend, and the history, recorded.
The Missions Phase V
Rome, Roman Empire, 44 B.C.
“HERE I WILL STAND TILL CAESAR PASS ALONG,” Moms murmured.
Spurinna was next to her, quiet and subdued. Overwhelmed with the past few hours, the reverberations of her errors in judgment still echoing in her mind, along with Pyrrha, her words, and her disappearance. She’d asked no questions when Moms demanded to be led to the Senate. They’d left Antony passed out, absent from the moment that would write the future history.
They were outside the Senate. Waiting.
“My heart laments that virtue cannot live,” Moms continued, speaking the words from the download out loud. “O, Caesar, thou mayst live. If not, the Fates with traitors do contrive.” She glanced over at Spurinna. “Act Two, Scene T
hree.”
“A play?”
“Yes. Written far in the future.” Moms knew she shouldn’t be talking like this. “That’s a fatal secret, by the way.”
“All I’ve witnessed today is a fatal secret,” Spurinna said. “I am an old woman. There are few foolish old women in Rome.” She pointed. “He’s coming.”
Surrounded by sycophants and no guards, Caesar strode toward the Senate. Hands were clutching at his robes. As he was about to pass, he saw Spurinna and halted. “You realize the Ides are here.”
As Spurinna made to answer, Moms place a hand on her arm, responding in her place. “And they have not yet gone.”
“Indeed, they have not.” Caesar waved an imperious hand and the crowd stepped back as he moved within a few feet of the two women. “I have heard and seen all the warnings. Yours—” he nodded at Spurinna—” and then Calpurnia’s dream. Cleopatra sent a servant with a warning; the fact she didn’t come herself, message enough. Antony has not shown himself. Another message.”
“Then why?” Moms asked. There was a shadow in the depth of Caesar’s eyes, an awareness of the situation.
“’Why’?” Caesar repeated, taking the question seriously. “What you see before you? Is a man already dead.”
“The strokes?” Moms asked. “The heart-mind sickness?”
Caesar was startled. “That. But more than that. They wait for me today. If I don’t make the appointment they have arranged, will they not wait for me tomorrow? And every day? And if I never show up, will that not indicate a craven coward? And can a coward rule? Eventually they will not wait and they will come for me. It is inevitable.”
“Fate,” Moms said.
“Yes.” He glanced toward the crowd waiting at the entrance to the Senate. “I do not fear death. We all die. I fear being forgotten. I would rather die as Caesar, than live and be forgotten.”
“A coward dies many times before their deaths,” Moms quoted. “The valiant taste of death but once.”
