Ides of March (Time Patrol)

by Bob Mayer

  A sad smile on Caesar’s part. “Very well put.”

  “So it will be written,” Moms said.

  The crowd was edging closer, pushing the time.

  “I do fear one thing,” Caesar said. He leaned close so only Moms could hear. “Can you tell me: what of Brutus? I love him like a son. Will harm come to him when he tries to protect me?”

  And Moms lied.

  Petrograd, Russia, 1917.

  DOC HEARD A DISTANT NOISE, a very irritating one. A fast-paced clattering, clacking noise. It took him a moment, but then he realized it was his own teeth. Doc forced them to stop chattering, but he couldn’t control the shivering. He sat up into darkness, except for the dying embers of a fire. The fireplace at which Golovkin’s guards and Krylo had been warming themselves.

  Panic overwhelmed the shivering. How long had he been unconscious? How long for the fire to go out? To burn down to embers? How much of his time bubble was left?

  Doc jumped to his feet and regretted it as he almost passed out. His head throbbed. He assumed he had a concussion and for a moment pondered how that would affect his ability to calculate and—

  “Nada Yada!” Doc said the two words out loud. Focus on the mission. If he were pulled back now, who knew what that idiot Golovkin would do. Had done!

  Doc opened the door and peered out. It was dark outside the Palace. How late?

  Doc headed for the Tsarina’s quarters, praying that she, and her children, were still there.

  As he came to the corridor that ended in the main entrance to the Tsarina’s quarters, Doc was relieved to see both of Golovkin’s peasants guarding the door. Doc approached in what he hoped was a commanding manner.

  He wasn’t very good at it, as both men stepped in front, barring his way.

  “I demand to see the Tsarina!” Doc yelled as loudly as he could. “By the spirit of Rasputin, and the Will of God, I must speak to her.”

  He heard arguing on the other side of the door, one of them a woman’s voice. So he had not failed. Yet.

  The door swung open. Count Golovkin filled the doorway. He glared at Doc.

  “Why did you not tell me—” he began, but the Tsarina’s voice cut him off.

  “Out of the way!”

  The Count finally followed an order, stepping aside.

  “My Angel!” the Tsarina called out, seeing Doc. “Where have you been?”

  Doc glanced at Golovkin and he shook his head.

  “There were other matters to attend to,” Doc said.

  Golovkin spoke up. “If you had told me of your prophecy, I would have assisted you.”

  “The prophecy was for the Tsarina,” Doc said.

  But Golovkin’s eye glittered with something Doc couldn’t quite place.

  “Might we speak privately?” Golovkin asked.

  Doc was going to object, but the Tsarina answered for him. “Yes. You men discuss this. I must prepare the girls. We are almost ready to leave,” she said to Golovkin, shutting the door.

  Golovkin pushed Doc further into the corridor, out of earshot of the two guards. “We do not have much time. The only reason I do not shoot you down right now is because the Tsarina believes in you, like she believed in that fool Rasputin. And a shot would draw attention we don’t want from the Bolsheviks. They are outside arguing among themselves what to do now that the abdication has been formalized. Many advocate coming in here and killing all of them immediately.”

  “Where do you propose taking the Tsarina and girls?” Doc argued. “There is nowhere for them but here.”

  “England. To their cousin, King George. He promised that he would provide haven for the family.”

  “And he revoked that promise,” Doc said.

  “They are family!”

  “They are Royals,” Doc said. “Do you understand what is happening here? This is an assault on the concept of the monarchy. Do you think King George wants that on his soil? In the midst of a war that all his people are growing weary of? And the Tsarina is from Germany! How do you think the British people will react to that? When their fathers, brothers, sons, are dying battling the Germans on the Western Front? He gives refuge to a German? Get in reality, man.”

  Golovkin was stricken. “But, where do I take them?”

  “Nowhere. I told you. The Bolsheviks will guard them. It is not in their interests to harm the Royals. It is against their interests.”

  “Will Alexei become Tsar as you promised the Tsarina?”

  Doc looked him in the eye. “Yes.”

  “In two years?”

  “Less than two years.”

  Golovkin didn’t seem convinced. “If it is true, that would be good.”

  It occurred to Doc to check the download. Count Pyotr Golovkin would join the White Army, along with most of the nobles. He would be dead just over a year from now, betrayed by his own soldiers when they defected to the Reds. The information was graphic: his eyes would be torn out, then he would be forced to run a gauntlet of drunken soldiers, jabbing their bayonets at him, until he finally collapsed and bled out. He would be just one of the approximately ten million who would die in the five years as Civil War following the Revolution.

  This was all about death.

  “What is it?” Golovkin asked, seeing the look on Doc’s face.

  “Nothing. Just a bad memory.”

  “Your memories are our future,” Golovkin said. “What is looming that brings such distress to you?”

  “There are many hardships ahead for everyone,” Doc said, as vague a true statement as he could utter.

  They both turned at the sound of a commotion echoing through the palace.

  Golovkin pulled the big revolver out of his coat. “They’re coming!”

  “Put that away,” Doc said. “If you fight, the Tsarina and the children are sure to be killed. I guarantee you that they will not be harmed!”

  Golovkin didn’t put the gun away, but he didn’t raise it. His two men came up and flanked him.

  A large group approached down the main hallway. Doc stiffened when he saw that the Tsar was among them, Krylo scurrying close behind him. The rest were revolutionaries. Doc sifted through the download, searching for information about who was who this day at Alexander Palace.

  The group halted just a few paces away. The Tsar gestured and Krylo whispered something to him.

  Tsar Nicholas II pointed at Doc. “That man.”

  The man to the right of Nicholas issued an order. “Take him.”

  Four soldiers with bayonets fixed on their rifles moved toward Doc.

  Golovkin stepped forward, halting them. “Wait.” He addressed the man who’d given the order. “Kerensky, we must keep the peace.”

  “That is what I am doing,” Kerensky said. “The Tsar has informed me that this man speaks as Rasputin’s ghost. He has effects from the priest’s body. He has snuck into the Duchesses’ rooms and stolen from them. We are removing him before he can cause any more trouble.” Then Kerensky matched Golovkin’s step forward. “And what are you doing here, Count?” He glanced at the Tsar. “Your Excellency, does he have your permission to be at your family’s private quarters?”

  Nicholas II, former Emperor and Autocrat of All the Russias, had deep bags under his eyes. His shoulders were slumped and his hair roughly combed. He barely shook his head, not saying anything.

  “Take him and those two pigs also,” Kerensky ordered. The two peasants were dragged away, of no consequence, not making a protest. Several soldiers pointed their rifles at Golovkin. A pair had their bayonets pressed into Doc’s coat.

  Golovkin started to raise the pistol when the Tsarina’s voice interrupted. “What is going on?”

  “We are ridding the palace of vermin, your Majesty,” Kerensky said. One of the revolutionaries snatched the gun out of Golovkin’s hand.

  “He is an angel sent by Grigori from heaven!” the Tsarina cried out.

  “My dearest,” Nicholas murmured, moving past everyone to his wife.


  “He is our angel!” Alexandra protested.

  “He is the spawn of the devil,” Kerensky said. “Just as Rasputin.”

  Nicholas put an arm around his wife’s shoulder. “My dearest.” He led her to the door. He turned and faced the group. He summoned some energy: “May the Lord God help Russia!”

  Then he shut the door, the Tsarina still crying out for her angel.

  “Come,” Kerensky ordered.

  Shots echoed in the distance, a ragged volley.

  Prodded by bayonets, Golovkin and Doc were paraded down the main corridor, out into the freezing night air. This isn’t real, Doc thought. He felt detached, as if this was happening to someone else.

  This isn’t happening.

  He and Golovkin were marched down the wide stairs to the circular drive, then off to the side, where small trees had been cut down. They fueled a fire around which a dozen revolutionaries were passing a bottle.

  Doc saw bullet marks in the stone wall. So did Golovkin. There were two bundles off to one side and Doc realized they were the two peasant guards.

  “Kerensky,” Golovkin protested. “I am a Count. You have no authority over me.”

  “I must keep the peace here,” Kerensky said. He raised his hands, as if in surrender.

  “I am chosen by the Tsarina,” Doc cried out. He held up the icon.

  “The wall!” one of the men by the fire yelled.

  The bayonets pressed. Doc and Golovkin backed up until they could go no further.

  “This is your fault,” Golovkin said to Doc. “We should have escaped with the family when we had the chance.”

  This made no sense, Doc thought. “There is no need for this! Everything will happen as it did!”

  “This is not how I die,” Golovkin said. “This is not how I die,” he repeated, as if he could convince someone. “I should die leading my troops. Not like this.”

  Doc reached out and grabbed Golovkin’s hand, remembering the man’s horrible fate from the download. “This is better.”

  For you, Doc thought. He looked up, desperately wishing he were a man of faith. He spotted a candle flickering in a second floor window to the right. In the halo of light he saw Anastasia’s sad face, her dark eyes looking back at him.

  A command was shouted, followed the sound of rifle bolts loading cartridges into chambers.

  Doc smiled sadly at Anastasia and with his free hand gave a little wave.

  She waved back.

  This was penance.

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

  MAC HAD ALWAYS FINISHED well ahead of Roland on the two-mile run when they were taking their semi-annual physical fitness test. Not to say Roland was a slouch; the big man did pretty well moving his weight that far, but Mac was a runner.

  Mac estimated he’d put about a half-mile’s distance between him and the butchery on the beach. He’d heard no sound of pursuit and a few glances over his shoulder hadn’t indicated any, but he doubted he was safe. Men like Roland, and this Swiss Guard, were single-minded once given an order and the guy was probably jogging along, figuring he’d eventually catch up.

  Some people were just that way. They were finishers.

  So Mac kept running along the beach, the Atlantic to his right. He’d dropped the rapier right from the start. And the dagger. Now, he paused for a few moments to tear off the monk’s robe. He was naked except for sandals and the purse over his shoulder, bouncing against his hip.

  His stomach revolted and he dropped to his knees. He vomited the ale from the tavern and the scant contents of his last meal, which he couldn’t even remember.

  Got to his feet. He felt a little better. He took off once more.

  Mac kept running, feeling his pulse become steady, his breathing rhythmic. Then one of the sandals gave way. He kicked the other off and angled until he was running in the surf, sand underneath his feet.

  He felt free. As if he could run forever and ever—

  Thermopylae, Greece, 480 B.C.

  “ASSYRIANS ARE IN THE LEAD,” one of Leonidas’ rangers informed him as he and Scout ran up to the Spartan camp. “Swordsmen.”

  “Archers?” Leonidas asked. More trumpets were blaring from the far side of the rampart. The Spartans, as was their way, had no trumpeters, drummers or any ‘noise-makers’.

  “Just infantry,” the ranger reported.

  Scout walked past the King as he received other reports. To the wall.

  Scout’s focus was to the left, at the side of mountain. She began to climb down the far side. A Spartan sentry grabbed her arm, but she shook him off. She reached the ground and made her way to a spot about twenty feet in front of the Spartan’s wall. The mountain rose straight up, the stone face surprisingly smooth.

  Scout placed her hand on the rock.

  “What are you doing?” Leonidas joined her.

  “This is the spot,” Scout said.

  “For?”

  “Where the map will appear.”

  “And once you have it?” Leonidas asked. “Do you know where you take it?”

  “I have seen a vision.”

  A ranger came running up, warning that the Assyrians were within assault range.

  The king turned to Scout. “You must wait behind the wall. When your map appears. I will get you to it.” He grimly smiled. “I trusted your promise. Trust mine.”

  Scout allowed him to lead her back to the other side of the wall as the first ranks of Assyrians appeared.

  There were less than 150 Spartans left.

  The Assyrians charged and the final battle began.

  Scout waited. She had to wait. It wasn’t time. Not yet.

  The issue was how long could the Spartans hold? Despite the ongoing slaughter of the Persian army, every now and then a Spartan went down. A warrior who could not be replaced, while Xerxes had an almost infinite supply.

  The carpet of dead grew deeper, the wall of rock and corpses higher.

  Scout looked to the sea. The storm that had been lingering offshore almost all night and this morning was finally moving. Landward.

  “Is it time?” Leonidas’ left eye was covered in blood.

  Scout reached up and wiped it clean with her cloak.

  The air was riven with the screams of wounded, the clash and grunts of warriors locked in mortal combat. Thunder came closer.

  Along the top of the wall, here and there, Assyrians reached the crest. Only to die. But it was happening more often. Time was running out.

  “Soon,” Scout said. “Very soon.”

  “May I use your weapon?” Leonidas asked, holding up his xiphos, the blade broken a foot from the tip.

  Scout handed him the Naga.

  With his other hand, Leonidas gestured. Ten Spartans whom he’d held back, his only reserve, charged up, eager to join the fray.

  “There!’’ Scout pointed at the spot she’d indicated earlier. A black sphere was forming. Frightened Assyrians scuttled back from it, opening a hole in their front. Leonidas held up five fingers and pointed. Half of the ten Spartan reserves dashed into the gap, widening it.

  “Come,” Leonidas yelled at Scout, straining to be heard over the combined roar of battle and storm. He jumped over the wall, swinging the Naga in a large arc. Clearing space. The last five Spartans followed. They locked their shields, protecting Scout. Leonidas pressed forward.

  Leonidas stepped off to the left, just short of the Gate. Scout’s escorts turned to face the battle, but for now, the Assyrians were too frightened to press the assault in this direction.

  “Go!” Leonidas yelled.

  “Not yet,” Scout shouted back, focused on the utter darkness. This Gate was not for her.

  Out of the Gate came two hands holding a golden orb. The hands were blistered and raw, burned so deep, bone was exposed in places. But they were steady. The sphere was large, almost three feet.

  The hands came further out, the arms as damaged as the hands.

  Scout reached out and took hold of the sphere.r />
  It was surprisingly light; yet heavy in a different way. Scout found it difficult to hold, as if were pushing back against her flesh in all directions.

  The hands suddenly snapped back into the Gate and it abruptly closed.

  Scout yelled. “To the wall!”

  Leonidas took point, the five Spartans flanking him in a wedge. There was little resistance from the Assyrians, their ranks disjointed, but there was no sign of the five who’d charged the breach in their lines.

  The rest of the Spartans had regained the wall and stood on top of it, the entire Assyrian front having pulled back for the moment. Scout followed Leonidas over the wall, holding the golden sphere in front of her. She could see that the surface wasn’t smooth, woven with two-inch wide strands in a seemingly random pattern.

  The entire thing was pulsing, as if alive.

  “The next assault will be the last,” Leonidas said to her once they were over the rampart. “We cannot hold any longer. They are bringing up archers to finish us. You must go.”

  Scout heard him as if he were far away. She could see something in the strands, realized they were moving, ever so slowly, as if she held a nest of golden snakes, but she felt no revulsion. They weren’t snakes. They were something else. A map.

  Leonidas’ hand on her shoulder jolted her. “You must go. Now.” He was looking past her, to the south. “They are coming over the mountains. We’re surrounded.”

  Fifty Immortals were coming round the bend from that direction, weapons at the ready. And behind them was Pandora, Naga staff in hand.

  “We have lost,” Leonidas said. “I will kill Pandora. That, at least, will be something.”

  “I have the map,” Scout said. “I can open a Gate. Here. Now.” She had one hand underneath the sphere, holding it up. The other was sliding over the surface. “I see.”

  A golden glow suffused Scout from the sphere.

  “What are you doing?” Leonidas had the Naga ready and was considering whether charging the Immortals or waiting would give him the best chance at Pandora. The Persians were less than fifty feet away. The handful of Spartans in defense behind them were slowly giving ground to the Assyrians.