The Master of Time

by David Wingrove

  404

  What if? I think. What if?

  But it’s too late to change things. We are committed now.

  I stand among the German warriors, watching the thick press of armoured legions come on along the muddy swamp that lies below us, their chest armour seeming to form an impenetrable wall of polished metal. Only, unlike before, this time we cannot get to them, for flanking that flooded path, on the banks of it, defending them against our tribesmen, are Reichenau’s forces, jeering and laughing, happy, it seems, to be risking their lives.

  The rain is coming down in torrents now, and in the historical version of this battle, the Roman archers were unable to use their bows, the legionnaires’ shields heavy, soaked by the rainfall. Only Reichenau has done something about that, issuing them with waterproof versions of their weaponry.

  Yes, and not only that. Some of his men have guns. Needle-guns, and lasers, stun grenades and rocket-launchers and …

  I realise I have underestimated Reichenau, for he has thought to play the same trick as us and bring in weapons from the future.

  We are not only outnumbered, we are out-gunned.

  So what if we do go back and bring in reinforcements? Armed with the latest weaponry. I’ve come this far, after all. Surely I have to take the next step?

  The two armies clash, with a noise like a train wreck, and as they do, so the air is filled with the stench of ozone and burning flesh. There are screams and explosions and gunfire and … well, all hell breaks loose, and mainly against our forces.

  Historically, the Roman army was stretched thin, surrounded, forced by press of arms and the incessant rain to follow a single course – one that led to their own destruction.

  Only history has been rewritten. Ten minutes of this and we’ll have lost.

  I look across the line to Ernst and Svetov and make a hand gesture that they know means to jump. But jump where? ‘Moscow Central’ I mouth exaggeratedly, turning to my left to repeat the gesture and the mouthing to our women – Katerina and Zarah and Urte – and in an instant we’re out of there, the six of us steaming, standing there in the silence of the platform.

  ‘We’re losing,’ Ernst says, saying it for us all. ‘We’ve got to go back to before the battle began and go in early with some heavy-duty weapons. What we’ve got—’

  Zarah, I note, is bleeding. ‘Are you okay?’ I ask, concerned.

  She nods. But I can see she isn’t good.

  ‘Go and get that fixed,’ I say, then, looking about me, I shake my head.

  ‘That’s it,’ I say, understanding coming to me. ‘We’ve been thinking much too small. We’ve been approaching this in completely the wrong way.’

  405

  The Germans are losing. They’re stumbling back before the joint onslaught of the Roman infantry and the Cossack cavalry. Some of them even turn and run. And then …

  It flashes overhead, huge and black, like some enormous flying creature, and as it does, so it lays a carpet of burning, golden light among the Roman ranks that roils up twenty, thirty feet into the air, burning everything it touches.

  I am there as it banks over the main Roman force and drops what seem like eggs – huge black eggs with the shape of giant grains of rice – among their ranks.

  Trees splinter and the earth heaves and lifts into the air, once, and then again and again, the sound of it hurting our ears.

  They are fleeing now, Russians and Romans, Cossacks and Vikings, our own men – defeated only a moment before – turning back to pursue the escaping armies, blades and axes flashing in the sudden sunlight, cutting down any they can catch, a sudden glee replacing the abject fear of moments earlier.

  Yes. I have cheated. Gone back in time and set up a factory and an airfield in this age, using endless quantities of our DNA – tanks of the stuff – to build these craft and bring them through, piece by piece, assembling them here in this godforsaken, godless time.

  Showing off, I guess you’d call it. Or overkill. Only anything Reichenau can do, I can do ten times better.

  Talking of whom …

  The Germans find him hiding beneath a pile of bodies in a ditch, well away from the incinerated part of the battlefield. They think he’s a demon of some kind and want to boil him alive, but Arminius persuades them otherwise, knowing that we want him for our own purposes.

  Which is good, only … one moment he is there, the next … gone! As if he’d stepped through an invisible door. Or so the two guards claim.

  It’s the kind of thing that could easily make you paranoid. Make you mistrust your fellow men, only their utter bemusement – their conviction that some form of witchcraft must have happened – convinces me they haven’t been bought by our friend.

  ‘Where?’ I ask them. ‘Show me precisely where he vanished.’

  And, hesitantly, each in turn enacts the route Reichenau took, mimicking his steps.

  ‘Was there anything … unusual about the way he vanished. Did he …?’

  I don’t know quite what I was going to ask, but it clearly rings a bell in the mind of one of the guards.

  ‘That was it …’ the man says. ‘He seemed to reach out with his right hand, and then … well, he gave what was like a little skip and … jumped.’

  ‘Ahh …’

  I have them mark the place with stones and set one of my own agents to guard it, then turn to where Svetov and Ernst are waiting for me.

  ‘Well?’ Svetov asks. ‘What now?’

  ‘We trace him back,’ I say, knowing in my head what’s to be done. ‘Go to the last time we saw him, in Varus’ tent, and trace where he subsequently went. Ernst, you tracked him for a while …’

  We go there. Watch him in Varus’ tent, then see him leave there, hurrying away, as if there’s something urgent to be done.

  ‘Not a happy man,’ Svetov observes. And that’s true. Through the field glasses, I can see that something’s troubling our friend. And I wonder for a moment if he knows what lies up ahead in time? Only if he does, then he must still be able to travel through time. Which might explain how he vanished just now.

  Only something doesn’t seem quite right.

  We jump to the far side of the encampment, once more among the trees, in time to see him emerge from among the rows of tents and make a beeline for what seems like a stone outcrop, not two hundred metres from where we’re crouching, watching him with our field glasses.

  ‘There he is,’ Svetov says, and even as the words are out of his mouth, Reichenau vanishes again.

  ‘Where the fuck …?’

  We make our way carefully across to where we last glimpsed him and search around, only he’s not there. There’s no sign of any doors or plates or …

  From the camp beyond us the trumpets sound.

  ‘Come,’ I say, knowing that there’s only one thing remaining to be done. ‘Let’s go back.’

  Back to where the guards had him and lost him. Back to where he jumped into the air, through the invisible door we’ve marked with stones. Because that’s where the bastard is. Right there, and nowhere else.

  406

  ‘What if he’s waiting for you, Otto? What if he’s standing there, needle-gun in hand, waiting for you to step through?’

  I shrug. Either I go through or I don’t. And if I don’t?

  It’s the same dilemma that I had with Kolya, when he took my girls. Take his hand and step through, or …

  Or lose all chance to get them back.

  ‘What worries me …’ I begin. ‘What really troubles me, is that maybe Reichenau is up to his old tricks. Stealing things again. That this portal isn’t his at all, but Kolya’s. And if it’s Kolya’s …’

  ‘Otto!’

  I look up the slope to where Zarah is standing amid a copse of trees. ‘What?’

  ‘It’s Arminius,’ she answers, in fluent Russian, trying to keep her voice as low as possible yet audible. ‘He and all his chieftains. Coming to thank you, no doubt.’

  Yes, and to seek explan
ations for all the wizardry.

  We stand there, waiting, as Arminius appears over the crest, striding slowly through the tall grass, his cloak flowing out behind him, a dozen warrior chieftains following him closely, a mixture of awe and fear in their eyes. The first Germans, and almost, today, the last.

  From their hesitancy, I can tell that they’re deeply disturbed by all of this, Arminius particularly, and while he feigns confidence, he’s really not too sure. What if we were to turn our weapons on his people?

  Oh, he’s incredibly uncomfortable about what we did, and I wish it were all a lot simpler, but I’m afraid he’s going to have to live with that, because I’m not going to make the first attempt to explain who we are or what we’re doing. He’s a good man, but such knowledge might really fuck him up. I know too much about the man’s future, and if he knows that we can travel in time he might want to know how and when he died, and then I’d have to tell him how he’ll be assassinated by these self-same chieftains twelve years from now on the orders of the Emperor Tiberius.

  And then what would transpire? A bloodbath, probably.

  Only that’s not going to happen. No. What Arminius plans is something far simpler, far more in keeping with the traditions of his people. We are to be thrown a feast. Even now his men are building a feasting hall, their craftsmen cutting down trees and constructing the frame of the great hall while their fellow warriors are out there on the battlefield, retrieving the bodies of their fallen comrades and slitting the throats of the injured Romans and their allies.

  You might think this all an unnecessary diversion from our main task – which is to find and capture Reichenau – but then we have all the time in the world to do that. All we have to do is jump back to the moment before Reichenau jumped through, and enter the portal that he used to get there before him – waiting on the other side to watch him come through and see where he went.

  Until then, our time’s our own.

  ‘Forgive me, Great Lord,’ Arminius says, ‘but who is he? That monster …’ And he makes a gesture, tracing the bulky shape of the doubled-skull.

  ‘An enemy,’ I say. ‘Why, what did he call himself?’

  ‘Before he betrayed me to Varus? Before I had to flee for my life?’ The young warrior king shudders with indignation. ‘He claimed he was the bastard son of the gods. He said …’

  ‘Go on …’ I coax him. ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He claimed he had seen the end of it all. Ragnarok. The Twilight of the Gods. He said he’d been there, watching, when it happened.’

  ‘And what did Varus make of that?’

  ‘I don’t think he believed any of it. All Varus wanted was his troops. Bloodthirsty bastards that they were. If you had not intervened …’

  I play that down, but sense that Arminius wants answers, if only to placate his tribal chiefs. Not that he’s going to force us to speak of it – we are gods, after all – yet he burns to know what has really been going on.

  ‘That craft …’ he says, looking at me as if to gauge how far he might push things. ‘What in the gods’ names was that?’

  Yes, and where did it come from? That’s what you want to ask.

  Only I’m not going to tell him. Let them believe that this was a battle between the gods. Let this remain one of those stories that their great-great-grandchildren will tell. Now is not the time to tell the truth. No. We’ve meddled with things far too much already.

  ‘Later,’ I say, and watch him bow his head obediently. And realise, as I do, that I’ve overlooked something – that we need to gather up all of the future weaponry that might remain on the battlefield, if only to prevent future archaeologists from unearthing such anachronisms. Not to speak of what might happen if they fell into the wrong hands here.

  ‘Ernst,’ I say, turning to him, then, in Russian, ‘Get a team in here, right now. As many as can be spared. I want every last piece of weaponry that shouldn’t be here found and removed. We may have to body search some of the German warriors, in case they’ve tried to smuggle them out, but …’

  ‘We’ll get a team working on it,’ Ernst answers, pre-empting me.

  ‘And Ernst … Have them dressed in black. As nondescript as we can make it.’

  And he turns and leaves, heading towards a clump of the forest that wasn’t affected by the fire-bombing – so that he can jump out of here without any witnesses – emerging only seconds later, facing us this time, returning at the head of a host of black figures, who spread out and, in silence, begin their work, combing the corpse-piled battlefield.

  I turn back, facing Arminius. ‘Come,’ I say, beckoning him to follow me, away from the part-blackened scene of carnage. He follows, his chieftains falling in behind him, hands on their sword hilts, fearing that at any moment I will turn into a demon.

  407

  As darkness falls, we go inside, into the freshly constructed hall, our hosts greeting us, bowing low as we step through, into the torch-lit interior.

  Looking about me, I see that Arminius’ craftsmen have done an excellent job, and as we climb up onto the high table, so I deign to give my host a gracious smile.

  But Arminius’ eyes are focused elsewhere, looking past me at my darling Katerina, whom Ernst escorts. And who can blame the man? For in the intervening hours, she has changed her golden cloak for a dress of the purest blue, and had her hair combed out and …

  As I turn, she smiles at me. An angel’s smile. She looks stunning. More beautiful, perhaps, than I have ever seen her, for the weight she has lost has given her beauty a sharper edge. Has honed her features, like a sword’s blade, to a finer point. And as she turns, taking her seat beside me, I see that every eye in the hall is on her.

  I wait, still standing as the others take their places, then, as total silence falls, look to Arminius – simple ‘Hermann’ now – and gesture to him to begin the festivities.

  For the next four hours, we drink, and sing, and listen to the poets of these crude and ancient peoples, feigning intoxication – not drawing attention to the alcohol filters we carry in our stomachs – and avoiding all explanations.

  Gods. Isn’t that enough of an explanation for them? Only I can see it isn’t. No, there are some there that would kill to know our secrets. Only we are gods, and when one – a lesser chieftain of the Sicambri – drunkenly challenges Svetov, it is Urte, the smallest of us, who, pushing Svetov back into his chair, takes up the challenge, to the great delight of all.

  Katerina makes to intervene, but I cover her hand with my own and smile.

  ‘Just watch,’ I whisper in her ear, then sit back, aware of Arminius’ eyes on me, a query in that look.

  The Sicambri – Baetorix – is a brute of a man. He stands, drawing his sword, but Arminius is having none of that. ‘No weapons,’ he says, his voice brooking no opposition. ‘You settle this hand to hand.’

  At which Baetorix scowls. But then, looking at his opponent, who, at Arminius’ words has shed her weapons belt, he grins ferociously. God or no god, how could this slip of girl defeat him?

  There is tumult in the Hall. Wagers are being made. Two warriors, seated at one of the lower tables, throw beer over each other and are pulled apart by friends and brothers, before embracing like old friends.

  ‘He’ll kill her,’ Katerina says to my ear, deeply worried now. ‘I mean … look at the size of him!’

  Oh, he is indeed a monster of a man, and as he throws off his cloak and takes his place in the space between the tables, I have just the slightest doubt. If Baetorix is thrice her size, that’s not exaggerating. His arms alone are monstrously muscled. Like pines. And as Urte steps down, into the wavering shadows of the combat space, so I remind myself of all the workouts Urte and I have done together, and smile.

  As she takes her place before him, so the big man laughs. ‘Goddess Urte,’ he says, his deep voice making the hall fall silent. ‘I promise not to hurt you.’

  ‘You promise?’ she answers, a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. And, c
rouching in her familiar way, she beckons him on.

  He moves like a great bear, stretching his arms out, as if, in closing them, he will crush her. But she’s far too swift, far too agile for his strong yet ponderous movements, and as he seeks to close on her, so she rolls and turns and springs high, and is suddenly behind him, clinging to his back, her hands reaching over his shoulders to tug at his beard.

  And as he bellows, reaching up to grab her, so she swings back and, using her hands, flips and slides between his legs, her head connecting sharply with his balls.

  Baetorix’s bellow goes up an octave, becoming almost a shriek. He reaches down to clutch himself, and as he does, to the great merriment of the watching warriors, Urte punches him in the nose, once, twice, blood spraying, the crack of the breaking bone sounding clearly over the sudden silence.

  Baetorix grunts, then stares at her, bemused, swaying suddenly, putting one hand out before him, which Urte knocks away contemptuously. Then, jumping high, she kicks out at the big man’s chin, using restraint at the last, such that the otherwise killing blow merely disables him.

  I watch as Baetorix staggers and then falls, like a great tree falling, straight and heavy, the weight of him spread across three of his fellow chieftains, his great bulk pinning them down and flattening one of the great wooden tables.

  And as the dust settles, so a thunderous cheer goes up. All are on their feet, cheering and stamping, raising their beer mugs to the slender slip of a woman who has defeated their champion. And as it swells and fills the Great Hall, so Urte stands there, beaming, looking down at her flattened adversary, then, accepting the heavy jug of beer she’s offered, downs it in one – just to make a point – lifting the empty vessel to Arminius in salute, his own saluting her back before, along with every other man in the hall, he tilts his own jug back and drains it at a go.

  408

  In a break between songs and story-tellings, I venture out, into the dark, cool night, the scent of death far stronger out here between the pines.